The Detective's Apprentice
by athenasdragon
Summary: AU: Mary Russell meets Sherlock Holmes in London at the height of his career. While this changes the dynamic of their partnership, it also introduces challenging new cases and a greater circle of characters into the mix. From disturbed crimes to hilarious banter, the duo make their mark on London-and each other. Inspired by Laurie King's series.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Rather than encountering him in Sussex after his retirement, Mary Russell meets Sherlock Holmes in London at the height of his career. While she still becomes a major part of his life, the dynamic of their partnership is drastically altered by this timeline change. Adventures and drama ensue! Less boring than this makes it sound! :-D

* * *

**Author's Note:** This is based on a story which I began writing a couple of years ago and discarded. After reading Laurie R. King's Mary Russell series, I adapted it to fit that character (I liked her much better anyway).

A note on chronology: there's a load of disagreement out there on the exact timeline of Holmes and Watson's adventures. For my purposes, I will mostly be sticking to the timeline created by Brad Keefauver, with minor adjustments as necessary. I apologize in advance if I do not follow your envisioned chronology but, for the sake of my sanity, I need to have _something_ off of which to work. I'm also going with King's altered canon in that Holmes was 21 when he began his detective career, which I'm taking as 1880. Thus, when the story begins, he is 26.

Also, I will be sticking to modern American spelling/grammar in this story, as I honestly don't have the time to look up alternate spellings based on region and time period. I sincerely apologize for this inaccuracy but I will try to keep to a tone appropriate to the time.

Any inaccuracies besides those discussed above are welcome to be pointed out in the comments! Otherwise, dear readers, please R&amp;R.

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**Chapter I**

On that day in 1885, though it was the middle of March, a deep fog had descended over the whole of London, and I could barely see the crumpled copy of a newspaper which I clutched in my hands. I had scraped it up from the street, damp and dirty, because of the promising article on the front page: "Man's Body Found in Thames, Brutally Stabbed." If my aunt would not let me read these accounts of crime and murder as I wished, I would have to find them myself.

I threaded through the foot traffic effortlessly despite the opaque yellow miasma, working more off of sound than anything else. I turned a corner, descended a flight of steps, and sidestepped a cab without ever taking my eyes off of the page.

My aunt. Even thinking of the woman made me twist my mouth in disgust. Now that she was my caretaker and in charge of the money which my parents had left behind, she was completely free to relocate us to the smelly London flat which we were currently inhabiting. I missed the house in Sussex, though I had only been there a month before we moved. The place held fond childhood memories of walks over the downs with my family, and the farm staff were kind to me. Now my only escape was to the crowded, grimy streets, where I knew no one and wandered solitary.

Just as my scanning eyes reached the end of the article, I collided head-on with a tall young man in a dark coat. I looked up, surprised, just in time to see the scornfully condescending glance he threw my way. "Watch where you're going, young man."

I lifted the brim of my cap with my free hand, just barely allowing my long blonde braids to slither down over my shoulders. "Yes'sah, sorry sah." I couldn't help but smirk at the man's expression of shock as my expensive glasses, Cockney accent, and long hair all registered with him. I had only turned as I walked, though, and a few steps later the man had disappeared back into the fog.

I allowed myself a laugh, sharp and clear in the thick air, as I straightened my spectacles and tucked my hair back under my cap. I understood perfectly London's abundant dangers for any young woman walking by herself, and had found long ago that male dress, along with being more practical, allowed me to slip unnoticed through the narrow streets.

I tossed the newspaper off to one side and continued towards my destination: a crowded, run-down bookshop by the name of Sidney's. The low building materialized in front of me as I crossed the last street and I opened the door, relishing the familiar jingle of the little bell which always welcomed me inside.

Sidney himself leaned against the counter, wizened and ancient, surrounded by teetering, unorganized piles of books. When he squinted through the dim light and recognized me, he grinned, revealing his few remaining teeth.

"Why Miss Russell! What can I do for you today?"

I chuckled. His question and my answer were always the same. "I don't know, Sidney, what do you recommend?"

The old man's eyes lit up and he dug through a few of the smaller piles beneath his counter. Sidney was the only person I had met so far in London who accepted, even encouraged, my habits of male clothing and wandering by myself. He knew little about my background but had probably guessed much. As far as he was concerned, I was welcome to spend the whole day reading in his dingy little shop, and I often made good use of that.

He reappeared moments later clutching two worn volumes. "A little Virgil for the young lady," he said, eyes twinkling as he set down the first book, eliciting a small cloud of dust. "And," he added, pretending to look thoughtful, "what might the date be today?"

"March the thirteenth," I responded automatically.

Sidney grinned. "Beware the Ides of March!" He waved the second book, an ancient copy of Shakespeare's _Julius Caesar_, before setting it on top of the first.

I laughed again, comfortable here at least. "Many thanks, Sidney. My aunt has been in quite a mood lately and I expect these to be useful when I'm shut in my room for the next week."

I paid, wishing that I could linger but knowing that I was expected back, and warily began my journey back through the invisible streets to my aunt's home.

* * *

A mere hour later, I stood in my bedroom and examined my transformation. My cap and plaits had been exchanged for a simple bun, my shirt and trousers with an old but functional blue dress. My aunt had spared me a cursory glance and said that it almost matched my eyes- "But not quite."

Until I turned twenty one and my inheritance was mine to do with as I wished, I had to make a living somehow. My reading habit alone was more than my meager allowance could support, not to mention cab fares across the city when I was fed up and wanted to get away. I had given my name and information to one of those ladies' agencies who disdainfully mentions appropriate names when housekeepers come inquiring after maids or governesses. Finally, after nearly two months of waiting, a telegram had come asking for my presence at an interview.

I sat silently in the hansom as it rattled its way towards the agency's building. I would have taken the Underground- Oxford Circus was barely three blocks' walk from the flat- but my aunt would not allow it. She was perhaps more determined than I was that I should find employment, because it would only keep me out of the house and allow her to supply me with even less money than she already did. She had adamantly insisted that I must arrive without the disheveled hair and unseemly smell which, in her opinion, would invariably follow a ride on the train.

I desperately hoped that the situation was a governess for a particularly bright child. At fifteen, however, some maid position was infinitely more likely. I folded my hands in my lap and tried to imagine what a dignified young lady would look like. As far as I knew, I had never spent more than a few minutes in one's company since I had returned to England. Good posture, I thought, and a prim expression. My spectacles must certainly be straight and my accent perfect; no slipping into my father's American drawl.

When the cab shuddered to a stop, I gingerly stepped down and surveyed my surroundings. The fog was still dense, but less so here, farther away from the river. Two ladies in fashionably uncomfortable dresses cast their eyes over me without breaking the rhythm of their steps or conversation. Even with so little regard for others' opinions of me, I still felt an angry flush creep up my neck. I had no wish to enter this world of manners and order and _rules_.

"Mary Russell," I muttered to myself as I made up my mind and stepped purposefully towards the building, "You are probably brighter than anyone else in the room. Keep your wits about you and nothing can touch you."

I was so absorbed in my self-encouragement- and in not tripping up the stairs in my impractical shoes- that, for the second time that day, I ran full into someone. This someone was an older woman, shorter than I was and rather rounder, and her surprised exclamation had just a hint of Scottish in it. Out of habit, I scanned her up and down to learn what I could. The practical bun of white hair spoke of something which required functionality. Housekeeper? No, the expensive rings and brooch said otherwise. But something with similar duties, if her short fingernails and slightly calloused hands were anything to go by. Landlady perhaps?

"Are you Miss Russell?" she asked, startling me out of my observations.

"Why yes," I admitted, trying to smile sweetly and probably grimacing horribly. "Are you Mrs. Hudson?" The telegram had only given the name of my potential employer with no other details.

"Indeed, Miss Russell." She glanced back towards the imposing agency. "I was rather unimpressed with the running of this organization and had just made up my mind to leave." She must have seen my face fall, because she added, "However, the position is still open."

"What kind of position?" I asked eagerly, forgetting all pretenses.

"Maid duties, mostly." Again the disappointment must have shown on my face. "I have a rather difficult lodger, you see, and I'm not able to keep the place quite as orderly as I would prefer. But there would be some cooking involved, and perhaps some special duties for Mr. Holmes."

My interest roused, I stood up straighter. If these 'special duties' were simply an extension of the housekeeping, she would have said so. The way her eyes broke contact with my face spoke of something infinitely more interesting.

"You were hoping for someone older, I suppose?" I asked bluntly, and she looked startled. I made a vague gesture with my hand and made something bordering on a wild guess based on her reaction. "Some danger involved with the position?"

"Why Miss Russell," she exclaimed, "How could you have known that?"

I shrugged in a way that I hoped was mysterious. "Please explain."

There it was again, the way her gaze slid away from my face to somewhere over my left shoulder. "Mr. Holmes has his chemistry experiments," she began cautiously, "and he has clients in at all hours. Sometimes odd people."

_Clients?_ I thought excitedly. _That sounds more than promising._

"Well, I do have a certain knowledge of chemistry," I assured her. "I'm quite well-read." I cast about for anything else I could offer up. "And my aunt, my caretaker, would not mind my assisting you or Mr. Holmes at odd hours. She barely notices when I'm home as it is."

"You do sound like you would fit in well," she admitted, and smiled suddenly. "Especially with your ability to make impossible deductions. I think that Mr. Holmes will like you, which, heaven knows, is as important as anything else for my peace of mind."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

My aunt pushed me out the door the next morning long before I was expected to begin my work for Mrs. Hudson with barely enough breakfast to keep my stomach from growling. She was expecting a gentleman visitor, I thought, which was more than enough motivation to obey her wishes and walk briskly away.

This morning the fog was more of a mist, almost pure in the fresh morning air. I followed my nose until I found a street vendor offering steaming hot pies. I wolfed one down and it scalded my throat, but at least filled my stomach. I guiltily licked the thick gravy from my fingers and walked to the Oxford Circus station.

* * *

Baker Street was a residential street lined by tall brick houses, all of which were very square and reassuring. Different-patterned ivory and white lace curtains were the only indication that the houses weren't completely identical. A cafe and a chemist's were tucked discreetly into the mix on the right side. I glanced down at the slip of paper in my hand, but it was purely out of habit. I memorized all important information rather than rely on physical records. I was looking for 221, which should be on the left side.

The house itself was easy enough to locate. Stately gold script on the window above the door proclaimed the address, and plate next to the door confirmed this, with the added footnote "A and B." I looked up at the building, trying to glean any information I possibly could about its residents. The ground and first floors had the curtains thrown wide open to let in the light, and I could see pristine end tables topped with tasteful vases and sparse photographs. These were probably Mrs. Hudson's rooms. On the second and third floors, however, only half of the windows were uncovered. One was partially open, and the end of the lace curtain protruded outside along with a wisp of smoke. I took in a deep breath and recognized the musky scent of expensive pipe tobacco.

"Miss Russell?" I started; I had lingered too long and Mrs. Hudson had caught me staring. Before I could allow the blunder to register and make me even more clumsy than usual, I stepped forward, smiling brightly. This time it was genuine, for I was truly excited now to begin.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson! I do apologize, I was only steeling my courage."

The older woman waved me inside and my nose was assaulted by an incredibly improbable mixture of odors. Something that smelled like roast chicken was cooking in a room nearby, and the pipe smoke was also more noticeable here. Through it all, however, wove a not entirely pleasant scent that I could only identify as _chemistry_. It was sulfur and fire and a hint of gunpowder combined with a hundred other things. A bowl of roses next to the door only added to the problem.

My eyes immediately began to water as I held back a sneeze, but Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to notice. She bustled through a door to our right and into her own small sitting room. "You won't have much to do in my rooms. I can do that well enough. It will be in the kitchen and upstairs." I lingered for a moment but only had time to notice her preference for a particular pearly blue color before I had to follow her into the kitchen.

The next thirty minutes or so were spent learning my way around Mrs. Hudson's immaculate kitchen and rooms. I learned where cleaning supplies were, as well as extra candles, and was given a list of the places I should do the shopping when that was also on my list of duties. Throughout the entire process, I tried desperately not to knock anything over with my protruding elbows. There was one instance where I went to push my glasses back up my nose and almost dislodged a painting from the wall, but I quickly recovered myself and righted the image.

After she had shown me all she could, Mrs. Hudson sighed almost apprehensively. "Very well then. It's time you met my lodgers." I followed her up the narrow staircase and listened with all of my attention. "Dr. Watson was a doctor in the army. His leg was injured in service and he was forced to return to London." Respect and fondness in her tones. "Mr. Holmes is… well, I'm sure he would prefer to explain himself." The dry humor and touch of exasperation here spoke of arrogance and, perhaps, other reasons why Mr. Holmes was best left to make his own impression. This man sounded more and more fascinating the more I heard of him.

The nondescript, worn black door at the top of the staircase stood ajar. I followed Mrs. Hudson through with some inexplicable trepidation. I rationalized it with the thought that the personalities of the lodgers would have a large impact on my mood in this position, but it truly was something more than that.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson!" A pleasant-looking man with a mustache closed his book and rose from his chair next from the fire. By the fact that he slightly favored his left leg, I deduced that this was Dr. Watson. He looked me up and down as well, a kind expression on his face. "This must be the new maid."

"Dr. Watson, this is Miss Russell." I curtsied in a way that I hoped didn't make me look like a clumsy imbecile and Watson nodded.

"Pleased to have you here, Miss Russell." He looked around the cluttered flat and so did I. Newspapers seemed to be the predominant problem, though I could see a kind of rudimentary system in the way they were laid out in piles on the furniture and floor. Tobacco spilled from a dilapidated slipper which hung from the mantlepiece. A few apparently random articles of clothing- including a clergyman's guise, unless I was much mistaken- were scattered over the other debris. The table was completely occupied by an overly-complex system of beakers and tubes and burners which were bubbling away with no apparent purpose that I could see. I wondered if it was just there to make some kind of point. "As I'm sure you can see, the help is needed."

I almost grimaced at the amount of work I would have to do but thought better of it. Even so, hours of polishing smoke stains from windows and walls and sorting through years of newspapers suddenly stretched indefinitely in my future. I settled for an internal sigh and an external bright smile. "I hope I can do satisfactorily, sir."

I had come to focus on the dark head which protruded from the other fireside chair. A haze of pipe smoke wreathed the oiled black hair; I had finally identified the source of that smell, at least.

"Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson asked with mild irritation in her voice, and, very slowly, the figure unfolded.

Holmes was very tall, though not quite unusually so. He was thin but broad-shouldered for his build, with wiry arms and legs clothed in well-made attire. This was crumpled, however, as though he had recently slept in it. It was his face which interested me, though: his strong, hooked nose, his dark, peering eyes, the broad forehead and expressive eyebrows and the thin lips between which was clasped a long, thin pipe. This face spoke of shrewd intelligence.

I looked from Mr. Holmes and his apparent cleverness but disheveled state to the newspapers and clothing, which I suddenly recognized as bits of disguises, and the realization hit me even before I noticed the card in the tray by the door: a Scotland Yard inspector by the name of Lestrade. "A detective," I exclaimed, thrilled by the thought.

"Indeed," Holmes said, apparently unimpressed by my deduction. "Welcome to Baker Street, Miss Russell." His voice was high and held the accent of that class of male who has had altogether too much education and is proud of the fact. His half-smile was vaguely mocking.

Holmes reached out as if to shake my hand, and it took me a moment to realized that that was indeed his intention. I smiled hesitantly but put my hand in his. His handshake was firm and almost brusque, his hands themselves calloused but long-fingered and cool.

When I dropped my hand back to my side, however, his gaze followed it downward and alighted on my left hand. At seeing something there, he gave a little cry of surprise and snatched it up for examination.

"What is it?" I asked, annoyed at this man's strange conduct. He didn't respond, but I eventually realized that he was examining the jagged scar where my thumb met my palm.

"Where did you acquire this?" he asked, turning my hand this way and that as though asking after some rare book which I had produced.

I hesitated, but gave in. "On a family trip to Sussex during my childhood. It was a pocket knife which inflicted the cut."

Holmes's head snapped up so that his dark, glittering eyes met mine. He watched my face for a minute, perhaps trying to determine whether I was telling the truth. Whatever he saw apparently answered his question because he smiled widely and tilted his head to the right. This revealed an almost-unnoticeable white scar on the left side of his jaw.

My eyes widened. "No. That's not possible."

Holmes straightened, his smile fading but mirth still dancing in his eyes. "Not impossible. Only highly improbable."

* * *

_I was barely tall enough to feel the sea breeze, but feel it I did. It threatened the security of my battered cap, beneath which were tucked my stubby blonde braids. The course Sussex grass reached to my waist in places._

"_Mary!" my mother called from far behind me. "Be careful!"_

_I ignored her with all the confidence of my three and a half years and stumbled ahead, hoping for a glimpse of the sea. When I tripped and landed full on my face, I was convinced for a moment that I had pitched off of the cliff. Much to my surprise, however, I raised my smudged face to see the figure of a boy._

_I knew that he was older than me, but couldn't have placed him between ten and eighteen. He was pale with sharp features and, when he spoke, I recognized the accent of my father's London friends._

"_Watch where you're going, little boy," he drawled disdainfully, and went back to observing the bumble bee curled in the palm of his hand._

"_Little boy!" I cried angrily, struggling to my feet. I tugged my cap from my head to reveal my straw-like plaits. Then I released my most barbed insult: I stuck out my tongue and simply stated "You're stupid!"_

_The boy glared at me coldly and unfolded himself from his crouch, his lanky form towering above me. His words were charged with ice. "Very well then, _little girl_." And he brushed the bee from his hand in preparation of leaving._

_I leapt up to capture it, suddenly distracted by the fuzzy, golden shape, and was rewarded by a sharp sting in the palm of my left hand. I fell back onto my bottom and burst into tears, terrified by the little black stinger still lodged in my flesh._

_The boy froze, his sharp eyes darting around in search of supervision, and apparently found none because he crouched back down to my level. "Take the stinger out," he said irritably, so I picked at my palm between sobs. But it was lodged under the skin at an awkward angle, so I looked around for some kind of tool._

_The boy was one step ahead of me: he handed me his pocket knife warning "Just use the tip." In my urgency however, I slashed sideways at my hand with the entire blade, removing the surrounding chunk of skin as well as the stinger._

_I wailed even louder as the boy snatched the knife from my hand. I watched the blood welling in my palm and was angry at the boy; in my mind, he was completely responsible. I searched around with my right hand, discovered a suitably jagged rock, and brought it up with all of my meager strength._

_The stone clipped his jaw, leaving a small but growing bead of scarlet on the underside of his chin, and he dropped the blade again in surprise._

"_Little girl," he growled, and the warning in his voice made me pause in my crying. But instead of striking me as I had feared he would, the boy simply extricated a white handkerchief from a pocket and tied it around my hand, tugging the corners until it was tight and secure. I hiccoughed softly as the pain began to subside._

"_Better?" the boy asked with surprising gentleness. I nodded, sniffling. "Good." And with that, he picked up his knife, stood up, and strode away, hands in his pockets, across the downs._

* * *

I saw that Holmes was shaking softly and realized that he was laughing silently.

"You handed me a knife when I was three years old!" I exploded, feeling a returning flicker of the pain and fright. "What in God's name did you expect to happen?"

"I don't know," he said, raising an eyebrow, "_little girl_."

My first impulse was to strike him and stop him from looking so smug, but it only took an instant for the coincidence of the situation to catch up with me. I moved to look at the scar again. I was quite tall, but only had to duck an inch or so to see the underside of his chin. It was clearly in the correct place.

Then I burst out laughing, thoroughly startling both Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson, who had been watching the whole exchange in confusion. Holmes grinned and laughed, too, after a moment.

That was the first time I witnessed Sherlock Holmes laugh, and, while it was far from the last, it never ceased to amaze me how this serious, thoughtful, often sharp man could suddenly break into a smile and shake with mirth. It was a sight which I would go out of my way to invoke, though not until much later in our friendship.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

I quickly settled into a comfortable routine. I would rise early and leave my aunt's flat as soon as possible, breaking my fast at a cafe or street cart. Then I would walk or take the Underground to Baker Street, where there were always duties for me no matter how early in the morning.

Many of my days were spent trying to clean 221B without incurring Holmes's wrath. The parts of the flat belonging to Dr. Watson- his room and all of the flat besides the sitting room, for all intents and purposes- were easily tidied and my efforts were appreciated. I was completely forbidden from entering Holmes's room after a disastrous incident in my first week which involved forgetting that zinc was combustible with air, so at least that hellhole was off of my mind.

That left the sitting room. Besides clearing away the remnants of meals, which tended to migrate around the room depending on Holmes's state of mind, I scrubbed and polished for all I was worth in an attempt to rid the flat of its smoky film. This was acceptable, but touching or tidying the tobacco slipper in any way was not. I was permitted to sort the newspapers into more organized piles, but not to stack them against the wall. Holmes had to snap at me a few times before I learned not to put away any books or albums which might be out on tables or strewn on the floor.

On an average day, I might take breakfast upstairs and lay the fire if it was cool enough to require it. Then, for a half an hour or so, I would assist Holmes however he required. This might be searching out names from his records or finding a newspaper from a specific date to cross-reference something in that morning's edition. Often it involved simply sitting in one of the eclectic chairs and allowing him to bounce thoughts off of me.

Through these exchanges, and no doubt hastened by our strange shared memory, we lapsed into a sort of strange friendship. Our barriers, so strong in each of us, fell away one by one. Eventually our prefixes followed them; he called me "Russell," and he was just "Holmes." I could tell that he was uneasy to have a young woman around for so much time, especially at first. Indeed, I was quite aware of his attitudes towards people of my sex, which might have been one reason that I strove to impress him on a regular basis, and why it was mostly against both of our wills that we did become friends.

This started as simple curiosity. I discovered that Holmes had written several short works on the various sciences of his art, and since none of the other members of the household seemed particularly eager to share stories of Holmes's adventures, I fell to these for my information. They were terribly interesting and opened to me and my young mind an entirely new world beneath the London I knew. Now, on my weekly journey to Sidney's to replenish my reading material, I would pretend that my male dress was a disguise and that I was trailing someone through the grimy streets. I would track makes of perfume and brands of tobacco ash, and the people they represented, for hours rather than return to my aunt's residence on my free evenings.

The more I saw into his world, which was to me so strange and wondrous, the more I wanted to know the man himself. He was brilliant, I knew, and his hauntingly beautiful violin playing certainly belied a dark tone beneath the unconcerned exterior.

I also took special care to engage with Holmes because of something which I discovered in a drawer one morning. Holmes had taken his coffee over to that day's particularly malodorous chemistry experiment and I was attempting to make some order out of the desk beneath the window. It was filled with unopened correspondence and assorted receipts and notes. I slid open the drawer to fill it with piles of envelopes.

"Russell!" the sharp voice snapped behind me. "Close that at once!"

But before I did, I had glimpsed the syringe and the bottle of clear liquid, which I held up accusingly. Any other maid, I later realized, would have shut the drawer and discreetly gone about her business, but I was too full of my own young passion and opinions to let the incident go.

"What is this?" I asked, appalled. "Heroin? Cocaine?" Holmes's lip twitched when I mentioned the latter. He had frozen, cup in hand, bent over a burner. I couldn't quite read his expression, but my first instinct was disgust.

_At me? _I thought. _At the drugs?_ It hit me then that Holmes had not had any serious cases since I had been working at 221. Cocaine was a stimulant, I knew, and I stumbled upon the answer without having to think too much about the problem. _He needs them when he doesn't have a case._

I felt sheepish, somehow, even though this reason was far from valid. Fortunately, the moment was saved when Holmes's dressing gown began to smoke, and as he jumped up to pat it out I slipped the bottle back into the drawer. I could see that the slide on the syringe was well-worn and that the bars along the glass, used for precise measurements, were faded. That more than anything made me deeply sad, but I slipped downstairs without another word. Nothing more was said of the incident.

So I did my best to capture Holmes's attention every morning before I began attacking his environment.

My afternoons were spent cooking with Mrs. Hudson or running errands. Dr. Watson eventually realized how reluctant I was to return home and would occasionally add his own requests- to check with a recovering patient, for example, or to report the current price of laudanum- to my list. Thus most of my day was filled and I could return home to sup briefly with my aunt before retiring to my room.

* * *

"You're sure you don't want to stay, Miss Russell?" Sidney asked, peering out at the rain which was pouring in sheets.

"I would love to," I said ruefully, thinking of just how wet I would be by the time I reached Baker Street. It was already cold for October and my limited male wardrobe would do nothing to keep me warm. "But I have to get to work."

"All right then Miss," Sidney said doubtfully, "but I'd best wrap these in paper for you." He pushed the books into a neat pile and I watched his dexterous hands wrap them in plain brown paper. "Are you still working at that house is Baker Street, Miss Russell?"

"Yes, it's a fascinating place to work." I smiled. "The landlady is so kind, and one of her lodgers is a famous detective." For famous Holmes was, I had come to realize, despite the fact that I myself had not heard of him.

Sidney started. "Not a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, surely?"

"Why yes!" I said, startled. "Do you know him?"

The old man chuckled. "He's solved enough murders in London. Say though," he asked suddenly, "How old is the man?"

I almost started, so little had the subject occurred to me in the past. "Less than thirty, I believe," I mused, calling Holmes's face to mind. The hair at his temples were untouched by grey and the lines across his forehead, I thought, were more from deep thought than age. "Why?"

Sidney winked. "I just want to make sure that a pretty young lady like you doesn't feel uncomfortable. He's quite the dashing young man, isn't he?"

I very nearly blushed at what he was implying, but managed to reign in my spluttering to make a coherent answer. "I'm sure I don't know what you could mean by that, Sidney." I almost mentioned how Mrs. Hudson and Dr. Watson were always there, besides, but suddenly realized that that was not always the case. There were plenty of times that I had been unchaperoned in the flat with Holmes, though it hadn't seemed like any kind of event at the time. Now that I was looking at it through Sidney's mischievous eyes, however…

I shook my head as if to physically clear it of such ridiculous thoughts. Holmes and I were cautious friends who each appreciated the other for their intellect but who often resented the other's mood or even presence. The idea of anything untoward taking place was, frankly, laughable. "Good morning, Sidney."

In just a few moments I had my bundle of books, wrapped and tied with string, and had ducked back out into the storm. It was Sunday morning and Mrs. Hudson wasn't expecting me until noon, so I still had time to get to 221. The closet which Mrs. Hudson had kindly emptied for my use held a clean, dry change of clothes, a brush, and a small mirror, so I would at least be presentable.

This room had come into my use the second time I had elected to stay at Baker Street until after midnight to assist Holmes with particularly delicate experiments; I had run home to tell my aunt that I would be staying the night and had simply slept in the closet, wrapped in a spare blanket. Mrs. Hudson then realized the convenience of my being able to stay into evenings and, occasionally, through the night, and so had allowed me to use the room whenever I wished. I even had a small pallet of old pillows and threadbare blankets so that I might recline with a book and a candle if I was simply keeping watch over the flat for a span of hours when it might otherwise be empty.

By the time I unlocked the door of 221 and stepped into the hallway, my cap was as heavy and sodden as if it had been a sponge. A steady stream of water ran off the end of my nose and my shoes, split and ancient as they were, squelched with every step. I wrung out my hat and coat as well as I could and removed my shoes to carry them upstairs, moving as quietly as possible.

I was creeping because Holmes had been in a particularly depressive mood lately and was taken to staying up all night and sleeping odd hours during the day. Though he would never make any sign that I had woken him, he was gaunt and pale enough without me robbing him of any more sleep.

The summer had been a dry spell for Holmes in terms of cases. He had had one minor blackmailing incident and two disappearances, both of which had been the result of mistresses in adjacent towns. He was incurably, miserably bored. The only ray of light was that, on the occasions when he shoved up his shirt sleeves in pursuit of a haphazard chemistry experiment or frenzied dance on his violin, his arms were free from the peppering of needle marks which I knew would accompany his return to the cocaine.

I had no explanation for his continued abstinence. Perhaps my confronting him had had some effect, though I doubted it; Dr. Watson, as a medical man and Holmes's close friend, would have had much more influence, and it was inconceivable that Holmes could maintain a drug habit without Watson's knowledge.

Because of his recent listlessness, I was amazed when the delicate strains of a waltz met me halfway up the stairway. This was not the manic music of the bursts of energy which invariably led to the violin being tossed away and its master throwing himself back into his chair. This was relaxed but not melancholy, the kind of music to which Holmes listened when he went out to see live orchestral performances.

I smiled, dripping as I was, and left my wet things on the first floor landing outside the entrance to my closet before nimbly climbing the second flight of stairs. The door to 221B was ajar, which was also a good sign. The warmth from the nearby fire was intoxicating even without the sweet melody, and I allowed myself to sit propped against the door frame and listen.

My toes warmed slowly in my thick, too-big socks as they gently conducted Holmes's playing. I had never heard him play like this before. His outline in the dark room was stark against the blazing fire as he stepped back and forth, head inclined and eyes closed as he focused entirely on coaxing the tune from the instrument perched in his long fingers. After a moment, I realized that he was waltzing, alone in the room, to the music.

"You are permitted to enter, you know," Holmes murmured without opening his eyes, and I started. How long had he known that I was there, sitting and smiling sleepily?

At any other time I would have stood and excused myself to go change. But that day the warmth of the fire drew me forward, hair loose and still clumpy and dripping, so I stepped into the room. As though in a trance, I stepped forward towards a comfortable-looking chair directly in front of the fireplace.

For a mere flicker of a second, it seemed like the most reasonable thing to do would be to join into the waltz, to step smoothly in time with Holmes and his beautiful playing, but I pushed away this thought and settled into the chair. The music continued.

_It's nearly noon,_ I thought, _and no time to sleep. I ought to go change._ But I had been up late reading the night before and the cold had taken its toll. Before the song ended I had slipped into a light, peaceful slumber.

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Please review! It means a lot.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the lovely response, everyone! I'm having a lot of fun writing this, and I've worked out most of what I want to happen in terms of plot 'n' stuff. Just one more note about differences from Laurie King's series: I admit to a shameful ignorance when it comes to theology and religion. I loved that Russell's heritage and theological studies were a big part of the books but I simply don't have the knowledge to make it work here. Rather than having awkward bits inserted here and there, I'm just kind of going to leave all of that out. It makes me really sad to do so, but again, I don't have time to extensively research every aspect of every story.

Anyhoo, please keep reviewing, etc. because it lets me know what you guys like! Thanks so much for reading.

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**Chapter IV**

I awoke to the sound of screams, as I had so often that past year. The screams of my family as the automobile skidded over the side of that cliff and hung, suspended, over the sparkling blue waters before plunging down to their deaths. Usually these screams were accompanied by the white face of my younger brother, watching me as I flew from the vehicle and bounced almost comically along the road.

This time the image had faded by the time I opened my eyes and the screams were only my own.

The cry trailed off as I looked around and tried to orient myself. The fire was dying down to cinders and the windows were open now to reveal a clear, cold autumn night. How long had I been asleep? Someone had taken the time to hang my wet clothing in front of the fire- the one in 221B and not Mrs. Hudson's sitting room, I noted, which was interesting- and toss a blanket over my long frame.

A door banged downstairs and thunderous footsteps raced towards me as I took a few deep, shaky breaths, trying to bring myself out of the nightmare. After mere seconds Holmes's thin frame rocketed into the room and he slid to a stop a few feet in front of me.

"Russell?" He was dressed up for an evening out but his scarf was trailing behind him and his hat lay discarded just outside the door. He had a handgun pulled halfway out of his coat pocket and his expression of sharp, focused anxiety might have appeared almost comical if worn by a less imposing man. When I didn't move or respond, he glanced about and made sure that there was no physical threat before placing the pistol on the table and striding over to stand in front of the fire. He remained there, hands in pockets, staring into the dancing flames.

"Holmes," I began shakily, "I am so sorry."

"Don't be," he muttered, almost distractedly.

"I fell asleep in your flat," I continued. "And I had a ridiculous nightmare. I must have given you quite a fright." I stretched out my legs and remembered that I was still in my male clothing. My hair had dried in long snarls and bounced against my cheeks, which were inexplicably wet. "I should go," I said when I finally saw the clock above the mantle. It was nearly seven. "My aunt will be expecting me."

Holmes finally turned to look at me as I stood and made a clumsy attempt to fold the blanket. He snatched it from me impatiently and tossed it into another chair. "You were sleeping so peacefully neither Mrs. Hudson nor I felt that it was necessary to wake you. I have already been by your flat to inform your aunt that you will be late or may even spend the night because Mrs. Hudson requires your continued assistance." He paused and I took the opportunity to brush a stray tear from beneath my glasses. I was thankful that I could stay at Baker Street for the rest of the night; that had been the longest I had slept in a long time without being awakened by the nightmares. After a moment, Holmes cleared his throat and continued. "You do plenty around the flat, and you should know that you are welcome here… as more than a maid."

I blinked, confused. Was this some admission of friendship, or had Mrs. Hudson simply decided that I was allowed to take refuge here from my aunt?

Rather abruptly, as though uncomfortable with the conversation, Holmes spun around to select a pipe from his ever-growing collection and fill it with tobacco. By the time he had turned back to me I had composed my features into a grateful smile. "Thank you, Holmes. I appreciate your kindness."

He barked out a short laugh. "Don't take me for some kind of philanthropist. With Watson in and out the past few months, you seem to be the only one with half a brain around here."

I accepted the backhanded comment with as much grace as I could muster. This also reminded me of what had brought me into the rooms in the first place. "Holmes?"

"Yes Russell?" By now Holmes had settled into his habitual chair with his pipe and was attempting to find his place in a severely dog-eared book.

"Did that tune earlier mean that you've found a case?"

Holmes's lips quirked into a smile around the stem of his pipe. "Indeed, Russell. For now, however, I think that you should speak with Mrs. Hudson about what can be done this evening to compensate for your extended nap."

I almost pestered him for details, annoyed, and had already placed my hands on my hips in preparation when I saw what he was doing.

I had apparently guessed correctly. "This is the kind of case which might ordinarily benefit from Watson's presence. With him on the Continent this month, I thought that you might perhaps assist me, assuming that Mrs. Hudson will allow it."

"Why?" I asked suspiciously.

"Because, my dear Russell," Holmes explained as he exhaled a bluish cloud of smoke, "you are bright and quick-witted and seem to have taken a rather flattering obsession to my works on detection." I blushed, but in the fire-lit room it was hopefully too indistinct to see. "You may have some promise in the area."

I was struck dumb by this last announcement. Sherlock Holmes thought that I might have promise as a detective?

After I had stood silently for a suitably awkward amount of time, Holmes nudged me along with a gentle "Off you go then, Russell," and I came to myself and left the room as quickly as I could. On my way out, I stopped to collect Holmes's forgotten hat from the floor and place it on a table.

I glanced back once to see the thin face relaxed at last and lit by the glow of his pipe and the dying fire, as his long, thin fingers turned the pages of his book with barely a whisper.

* * *

That night I slept more soundly than I had in months, though I was only curled on the floor of my closet in my nest of blankets. After rising and tugging a brush through my knotted hair, I donned my reasonably-presentable dress and went to help Mrs. Hudson prepare breakfast. Despite my excitement, it wasn't until I was armed with a laden tray that I allowed myself to dash up the stairs to 221B.

Holmes was perched on the arm of his chair, fingers tapping restlessly and already dressed. The instant I walked through the door, however, he sprang to his feet, an expression of intense focus on his face. I had barely set breakfast on the table before he had shoved an open letter into my hands.

"Read."

It was written on well-made but not extravagant paper in a woman's hand. The handwriting was shaky and nervous, though the strokes were still bold.

_Mr. Holmes,_

_I am sorry to trouble you with a matter which must be trivial to your great mind, but something has occurred which is preying on me greatly._

_My husband is a Mr. Henry Jennings of a large Sussex estate._

I raised an eyebrow. "Sussex?"

Holmes waved a hand. "Irrelevant."

_I recently held a large party in honor of his fortieth birthday, and he and a few of his friends rode out over the downs. My husband fell from his horse and broke two bones in his ankle and one in his leg. In the two weeks since, he has been confined to our house and has great difficulty in walking. The doctor provided him with a sturdy aluminum crutch, but he refuses to learn how to use the thing properly. His movement is severely limited._

_Yesterday morning, on Friday the eighth of October, I went upstairs to our room. I had had some difficulty in sleeping, Mr. Holmes, and had been up all night drinking tea and reading in the library. I heard nothing unusual during the night._

_However, upon entering our chamber, I discovered that my husband was missing. The bed looked as though it had been slept in, but he was no where to be found. I engaged the help of our staff and, eventually, the police, in my search. They found no signs of a forced entry or a struggle, but Henry was gone._

_We searched over the downs in three miles in each direction and found no sign of him. None of the servants saw anything, either, and I am at my wit's end._

_You see, Mr. Holmes, the aluminum crutch was still leaning against the night table where Henry had left it the night before. Without it, he could hardly have gone far on his broken leg, unless he was forcibly taken. But as I said before, there is no sign of a struggle._

_If you could find the time to come visit our home in Sussex, it would ease my mind greatly to know that such a prominent detective was searching for Henry._

_Thank you for your time._

_Yours,_

_Jessica Jennings_

"Well," I began as Holmes clattered about at the table, "several possibilities occur to me."

Holmes held up a finger but I had to wait until he had swallowed his coffee before he spoke. After a second, he gulped the last of the hot drink and very nearly threw the cup down on the table in his excitement. "My dear Russell, it does not do to make any kind of assumption about such a case. We had better wait until we have interviewed Mrs. Jennings and her staff and searched the house."

_We._ I contained a smile.

"Stop smirking, Russell." Holmes waved a piece of toast severely. "This is only until Watson returns home. Besides, you might be completely useless."

_We'll just see about that_, I almost said, but obediently straightened my face.

"Now go convince your aunt to allow you to come. I've spoken to Mrs. Hudson." Holmes pulled out his watch and glanced down at it. "We shall catch the train in precisely ninety minutes."

I very nearly skipped out of the flat and back to my aunt's residence. She took almost no convincing, as I had expected, and I was back at 221 in slightly more suitable clothing, complete with hat and gloves, in plenty of time to get a cab to the station.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Anyone who can figure out why Jennings is missing gets 10,000 bonus points. All the information is there!

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**Chapter V**

The Jennings's home was indeed impressive. It was nestled against a gently sloping hill and the midday light made clearly visible the rows of large windows. Holmes had elected to walk from the train station so as to observe any marks in the road.

"But Holmes," I asked as he trekked slowly along the well-beaten path, "surely he or his kidnappers would not have taken the road?"

He twisted his long frame around to give me a sour expression. "Perhaps then, Russell, you should lead the efforts."

I recognized the challenge and drew myself up. "Very well." I made my way to the edge of the road, where the grass was still short and easy to navigate. "Just here," I said, pointing to the half meter or so on either side, "any tracks would be much more difficult to recognize, but one could still follow the well-known path." A minute or so of searching proved me correct. "Here."

Holmes joined me and examined the indistinct marking. It appeared to be a human left foot, probably male judging by the length and depth and the shape of the heel, but with odd rectangular protrusions on either side. "Curious," Holmes muttered. Farther along was the print of a right foot, this one without the unusual shape. Both faced away from the house and were on the left side relative to their direction.

"We had better go and interview Mrs. Jennings now," Holmes said pointedly after I had spent nearly a quarter of an hour scouring the area for additional markings.

The door of the large house was opened by a uniformed maid, who seemed to be accustomed to showing strangers into the library. There we waited for less than two minutes before Mrs. Jennings appeared.

She was a woman of average height, so I very nearly towered over her. Her honey-colored hair was coiled loosely on top of her head and several strands had escaped to frame her face and brush against her neck. Her dress was well-cut but simple, a lovely rich brown with cream lace down the front. He face was fresh and pretty, I thought, with delicate laugh lines barely visible at the corners of her eyes and a sort of honest openness about the mouth, but she could hardly be called beautiful.

"Mr. Holmes," she gushed, stepping forward and offering her hand. My companion took it and bowed with a slightly amused expression. "I am so very happy that you could come. I just don't know what to do, you see, since Henry disappeared on Friday. The police have been out but they could find nothing-"

"Yes, so you said in your letter," Holmes interrupted cooly. "Tell me, is this where you sat reading that night?"

Mrs. Jennings barely blinked at the jump in the conversation as she stepped over to the chair Holmes had indicated. "Yes. I had a cup of tea here, on this table."

"Perhaps you would be kind enough to take us through everything which happened that evening. This is Miss Russell, she will be…" Holmes glanced at me. "Assisting me."

Mrs. Jennings nodded and sank into another chair. For a moment I thought that she might cry, but she took a few deep breaths and composed herself enough to begin her story. Holmes remained standing, but I sat to reduce the atmosphere of interrogation.

"Thursday night we had dinner as usual. It took Henry some time to get downstairs with his leg, and he was in a poor mood."

"And what was served for dinner?"

"We had roast beef, it's Henry's favorite and I don't like to make him wait for Sundays." Mrs. Jennings cleared her throat. "Anyway, we finished eating at perhaps eight, and we both went to the library to read. Neither of us left the library until ten thirty, when I helped Henry upstairs and we both went to bed at eleven. It took him extra time to change and get ready, of course." She paused and I realized that I was leaning forward as though that might help me strain meaningful information from her words. "I have always been a light sleeper, Mr. Holmes, and since Henry broke his leg I have sometimes had to be up at odd hours to help him. For this reason I have been having difficulty sleeping through the night. That night, at perhaps twelve thirty, I realized that I was still completely awake, so I rose and went back down to continue my reading."

"Did Mr. Jennings wake up as you rose?" I asked eagerly, speaking for the first time.

Mrs. Jennings favored me with a kind smile and I wondered who she thought I was. "Yes, dear, he rolled over as I left and asked where I was going. I told him that I intended to pass the night reading and not to expect me to return to bed."

"Was this a frequent occurrence? Your passing the night in the library, I mean," Holmes interjected.

She thought for a moment. "It had happened three, perhaps four times since Henry was injured."

Holmes nodded and made an impatient gesture. "Please continue."

"I had our housekeeper, Mrs. Fields, make a pot of tea and leave it in here with me. I read through the night, probably dozing a little as the night wore on. At eight, when Henry usually prefers to wake up, I set my book aside and went back upstairs to our bedroom to help him dress." Mrs. Jennings paused again as the relived some of the distress she had experienced. "He was gone. The room looked just the same as it had when I left it, including his aluminum crutch leaning against the bedside table."

"And you heard nothing during the night?"

"No."

"Very well." Holmes turned, taking in the library one more time, and then asked for us to be shown upstairs. Mrs. Jennings took us herself.

"Which rooms are directly above the library?" I asked as we mounted the stairs. If the bedroom or hallway had a wooden floor and was above where Mrs. Jennings had passed the night, then she might have heard footsteps, especially if Mr. Jennings had been using a crutch. This would imply that he left of his own accord, either with someone who brought him another crutch or with a crutch which he had kept unbeknownst to his wife.

"The hallway onto which our bedroom opens stretches across it," Mrs. Jennings explained. "There is a linen closet and a spare bedroom which are also directly above it."

"And you heard no footsteps? If there had been noises above, you would have heard them?" Holmes looked at me approvingly and I beamed internally.

Mrs. Jennings nodded. "As I said, I only dozed during the night. Someone would have had to have been intentionally silent in order for me not to have heard them."

No crutch then. Holmes leaned towards me. "Suggestive, is it not?"

"Indeed," I mused.

A closer examination of the chambers which Henry and Jessica Jennings shared revealed only what we already knew. There was no sign of a struggle and the window was latched securely from the inside. Upon looking surreptitiously around the room, I discovered a picture of the couple. Mrs. Jennings was smiling sunnily, though she must have had to maintain it for much too long to be comfortable, and Mr. Jennings had a sort of stiff dignity. I noted his features for future use.

Mrs. Jennings's night stand held the picture, a few novels, and some letters which I presumed to be from her husband. The other small table held only a single book and a stumpy candle.

In response to our inquiries about their staff, Mrs. Jennings told us that only Mr. and Mrs. Fields had been at the house that night.

"May we interview them?" Holmes asked, though it was really more of an order.

"Of course."

Mrs. Fields quite reminded me of Mrs. Hudson with her air of benevolent disapproval, and Mr. Fields was tall and rail-thin and had an impressive white moustache. Their interview was as routine as possible. Their stories matched that of Mrs. Jennings perfectly and neither of them had seen or heard anything unusual.

Because of our lack of information, I was surprised to hear Holmes humming cheerfully as we began our walk back to the station.

"What is it, Holmes? What am I missing?"

Holmes looked sideways at me, amused. "My dear Russell, the entire case is solved."

I froze in astonishment. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Come," he said, not answering my question in any way. "We need only check at the station to confirm where Jennings is."

As Holmes had predicted, the second railway employee we spoke to remembered selling a man with Henry's description a ticket to Paddington Station.

"Funny bloke," the man reflected. "Bit of a limp in his left leg, looked antsy when I mentioned it."

"What does it mean, Holmes? Please tell me!" I very nearly begged as we finally settled ourselves into our cramped little carriage.

"Use that mind of yours and don't make me regret bringing you along, Russell." I sank back, stung. "You have all the information available. See if you can figure it out."

And with that, Holmes leaned back, settled his hat over his eyes, and slept easily all the way back to London while I tore apart every aspect of the day's events and tried to catch up with him.

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_Please review, it means a lot to the writer!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter VI**

I spent the entirety of the train ride back to London considering the problem of the aluminum crutch. It was clearly the turning point of the case; if Jennings had walked out of the house, then he would have needed some other kind of support. However, Mrs. Jennings would have heard the thumping of a crutch in the hallway upstairs. If Jennings had been removed forcibly, there would have been some signs of a break in. I concluded that he could either have been carried by accomplices or crawled, but the man at the station had said that he was standing and walking with nothing more than a limp.

The strange footprints were recalled to mind, and it struck me that Jennings might have some sort of metal brace on his leg which would allow him to walk quietly and without assistance but leave him with a slight limp. I took this as my working theory, therefore, and expanded upon it.

Mrs. Jennings had regularly spent the night downstairs, so Jennings might predict that this would be the case again soon. After she left he must have produced the brace from its hiding place- possibly secured beneath the bed within easy reach- and put it on himself. After dressing, he would have crept down the hallway, downstairs, and out through one of the plentiful doors. He left those odd footprints along the side of the road in a clumsy attempt to conceal them and made his way to the train station, where he purchased a ticket to Paddington.

I looked up excitedly to see that Holmes had opened his eyes and was watching me with interest. "I see that you have reached the same conclusion as I have. His motive for visiting London was, of course, debts," he finished just as I supplied "A mistress."

Holmes quirked an eyebrow. "The wife made a point of mentioning how large the estate was in her letter, so she is clearly proud of it, yet they only employ two servants. After she spent a large sum on the party for her husband, he was likely too ashamed to face her with their money troubles."

I was appalled by the gaps in Holmes's logic until I saw the challenging spark in his eye. I snorted. "He has a mistress in London, Holmes, and you know it. A wife who doesn't make her husband wait until Sunday for his roast beef is a wife trying to add affection where there is none. Mrs. Jennings is kind but aging and rather plain, and her husband has no pictures on his bedside table. It's quite bare, in fact, as though he prefers to spend his time somewhere else. And besides," I added haughtily, "why on Earth would he go to London to escape his debts?"

I finished my tirade and sat triumphantly for a moment until Holmes burst into delighted laughter. It took him a good minute to calm down enough to speak, at which point he wiped his eyes and said "Oh, Russell, you forgot all about the extravagant birthday party!" This sent him into fresh gales of laughter for some reason, and he was still chuckling as we disembarked at the bustling station.

"All right, very well, her subconscious suspected what her conscious mind could not comprehend. But what do we do now?" I asked, thoroughly annoyed.

Holmes hailed a cab, his usual calm self once more. "We return to Baker Street for supper, I believe, and then you go home to your aunt."

"But Holmes," I protested, "something must be done to find the man."

"Lestrade has had his name and description since I first recieved the letter."

I almost fell backwards in surprise, the implications of this having hit me just as I was stepping into the cab. Holmes put a hand on my back to steady me then followed me in. "You mean you knew that he was in London all along? How?" I paused, struck dumb with anger. "You knew and you were just testing me!"

Holmes settled himself back into his corner of the vehicle, eyelids drooping as though he were about to sleep again, and muttered something which was lost under the rattle of our movement.

"What?" I snapped irritably.

"You passed." He opened his eyes briefly to address me. "Shockingly."

"Flattery will get you no where," I said dryly, which earned me another chuckle. This one was not at my expense, however, so I didn't mind.

By the time we arrived back at 221, it was raining again. The October cold, which had been less pronounced in the South, was back in full force with the dreary weather. We leapt from the hansom, which had stopped at the end of the street because of the deep and vaguely threatening puddles, and I dashed to the door, unlocking and opening it while Holmes paid the cabbie. We both sprang inside and nearly slammed the door behind us.

"Don't drip on the carpet!" Mrs. Hudson immediately bustled into the hallway, hands fluttering, and I made to take off my coat before realizing that I was wearing a dress for once. I looked helplessly at her when I realized that I had no more clean sets of clothing stashed away in my closet. "Well, Miss Russell, go change and help me with dinner!"

I pulled my now-limp hat from my sopping hair and my drenched gloves from my fingers, wrung out my skirt as well as I could, and cleared my throat before explaining. "I'm afraid I have no other clothes, Mrs. Hudson."

She threw her hands up in the air exasperatedly. "I knew that this would happen as soon as you started helping with the cases. I hired you as a maid, and that's what I told him and Dr. Watson, but of course you don't have time for that, and you, sir," she stabbed a finger at Holmes, who froze in his attempt to steal past and up the stairs, "don't think that I'll still manage to have supper ready on time with her running back to her aunt's to change, and just remember that it's your own fault!"

Holmes managed to wrench his startled face into a patronizing smile, but not before I saw just how much control this mildly terrifying woman had over him. "All right Mrs. Hudson. Just bring it up when it's ready." And with that he turned to escape upstairs.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head disbelievingly. "The nerve!" Then she turned to me, and suddenly she was smiling confidentially. "Did you enjoy yourself, dear?"

I blinked, startled by her change in tone. "Er, yes, I think I may have passed some kind of test."

She only nodded. "Well, you'd best go and change then, and come back." She made to go back into the kitchen but stuck her head around the corner just as I was steeling myself to go back out into the downpour. "Perhaps you had better talk to your aunt about staying here during the week, if you're going to be going off on mad adventures. At least then you'll be available to help any of us around here. And you can keep a few changes of clothes in that closet. And I may put a proper mattress in there."

I beamed at the thought of spending even more time at 221 and, by extension, less time with my aunt. "That would be wonderful, Mrs. Hudson! I'll speak to her now and bring over a bag if she agrees."

She did, of course, and after eating with Mrs. Hudson and Holmes, who decided to join us downstairs for some reason known only to him, I spent the evening drying in front of the fire and watching Holmes conduct a chemistry experiment. He explained every step of it to me and even recommended a book which might increase my knowledge on related subjects, and I couldn't help but feel that some sort of strange apprenticeship had begun.

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_Thanks to TemporarilyAbaft for being so enthusiastic about this story! And I promise a longer chapter next time (which will cover Russell's 18th birthday! Ooh la-la!)._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter VII**

"And your gentleman friend will be there, of course?" Veronica Beaconsfield asked for the fifth time as we made the cold walk from the station to 221.

"I wish you would stop calling him that, Ronnie," I said irritatedly. The ridiculous dress which my friend had chosen for me, flattering as it may have been, was completely impractical for my customary long strides. "But yes, Mr. Holmes will be there."

It was the evening of my eighteenth birthday. The last week had been spent celebrating Christmas and the New Year with Ronnie and her family, it being my first chance to spend much time with her since I had made her acquaintance the previous summer on a London case. We had shopped and gossipped and been real, proper young ladies, and I was more than ready to reenter the familiar world of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and the eclectic sitting room of 221B.

On our last shopping expedition, Ronnie had come with me to the fitting of the new wardrobe I had purchased a week in advance. I had been forwarded a small sum of money from my parents' fortune for the occasion of my birthday, and I had spent most of it on the new clothes. Most were as practical as I could get away with, all broad, maneuverable skirts, high collars, and comfortable waists. The confection currently impeding my stride, however, was the epitome of grace.

It was purple velvet which draped just so to give the impression of hips where there were really only rail-thin legs, then swept the ground with an almost confidential whisper. My waist, at least, was of a fashionable size, and my corset did the rest of the shaping and padding. The collar was still high, as was practical for the January weather and to hide the scars of the accident which had killed my family. Cascading down the front was a strip of black and white lace-like pattern, which widened and shrank to give the impression of a fuller figure.

Over this glorious monstrosity was a creamy white coat, which Ronnie insisted clashed but which I loved because it reminded me of the snow and the heavy sky. My hands were tucked securely into a white muff but the tips of my ears and my nose were bright pink with the cold.

"Well, I hope that he is there, and that you haven't been leading me on this whole time," Ronnie said playfully. "This Mr. Holmes sounds rather too good to be true!"

I rolled my eyes. "Here we are, Ronnie, so please try not to embarrass me."

She winked. "I would hate to ruin your chances with your gentleman friend!" I gritted my teeth, already regretting mixing these two worlds, and knocked firmly on the door.

Mrs. Hudson opened it and smiled warmly, pulling me into a hug. "Welcome back, Miss Russell!"

The last year, I had not been officially working at Baker Street. The closet was still open for my use, I still had a key, and I still regularly helped to prepare meals, but I was also engaged with my tutelage. Besides that, my own research into various matters and my continued apprenticeship with Holmes had made any job with regular hours difficult to manage. It had been most of a month since I had been at 221 for more than a brief visit.

For this reason as much as my affection for the lady, I returned her embrace enthusiastically. When I pulled away, I gestured to my friend rather halfheartedly. "Mrs. Hudson, this is Lady Veronica Beaconsfield. Ronnie, Mrs. Hudson."

Ronnie held out a hand to shake, which Mrs. Hudson took cautiously. "Splendid to meet you at last, Ma'am! I've heard so many wonderful things about you," she gushed.

"Yes," said Mrs. Hudson delicately when she finally extricated herself. "Quite."

We were led upstairs, as the party was to take place in 221B. I grinned as we approached; lively violin music spilled from the warmly-lit doorway, and I could hear Watson laughing. I was not disappointed when the room came into view, for colorful streamers were tossed haphazardly about the place and candles and lamps sat on every surface, some in colored glass vases to throw rainbow sparks across the walls.

Holmes had his back to me, facing the fire and playing with all his attention as he had that night over two years ago. Watson stood, glass in hand, and nearly yelled "Welcome, Mary! Many happy returns!" as I crossed the threshold.

I laughed, delighted with the entire scene. "Thank you, Uncle John!" This man who was just over ten years my senior was the closest thing that I had to a father, and his kindly expression was always a welcome sight.

I could feel Ronnie tugging the coat from my shoulders so I let it slide loose and placed my muff on the table by the door. Suddenly I felt self-conscious in my strange, fashionable dress, so I took the only option available to me and patted my hair in a way that I hoped hid my face. Then, when I felt ready to face the room again, I pushed my spectacles back up my nose and looked up.

This was just in time to see Holmes turn around, his bow mid-stroke, and catch sight of me. His eyes widened and the chord ended in a startled wail as his arm froze. I looked down at myself, half expecting to see some gruesome creature sprouting from my chest to illicit that reaction, and saw only my body. The body of a woman, I suddenly realized. Tall and gangly, yes, but a woman nonetheless, and one that might even appear beautiful when softened by the candlelight.

I grinned and curtseyed, suddenly confident. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

For a few seconds, I feared that Holmes might actually faint. Indeed, he went so pale and leaned so far backwards that I had taken a step forward when he righted himself, took a steadying step, and composed his features.

"Good evening, Miss Russell," he responded formally. He looked at Ronnie, who looked as though she was trying to contain a squeal of delight. "And who might this be?"

"Ronnie, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes, Lady Veronica Beaconsfield."

Holmes bowed politely and Ronnie inclined her head. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes! Mary was effusive in her praise."

I glared at my friend and Holmes looked amused. "Is that so? Well, I fear that she may have exaggerated."

A silence fell which dragged on until it became awkward. Holmes was clearly trying not to laugh at my embarrassment. After several seconds, I clapped my hands. "Is that sherry, Uncle John? It's rather cold out, I think I could do with a glass."

The conversation ground into motion and the rest of the evening passed relatively uneventfully. Ronnie found that she got along rather well with Watson, interested in nursing as she was. The five of us ate together, all crowded around the little table in 221B. Holmes especially seemed to be in his element and made a special effort to keep everyone's glass full and the anecdotes flowing just as freely.

When it came time for gifts, my friends bustled me over to a chair and all stood around me, watching excitedly as I undid the frivolous bows and paper. Mrs. Hudson gave me a lovely hatpin with a small, sparkling sapphire for decoration, which I could tell Ronnie coveted. I thanked her profusely but knew in my heart that I had no use for anything so beautiful.

As a joke, Ronnie "completed my wardrobe," as she happily announced, with a new set of male clothing. It was suitably baggy and misshapen to pass for old and dilapidated on the streets, but had no telltale holes and worn patches. It would do much more to keep me warm than my old set and looked as though it might actually fit me. The entire ensemble was complete with a worn but sturdy pair of boots that looked as though they might be passed on from a gardener. I hugged her and laughed and assured her that I would throw out my old things.

Watson, rather red-faced and embarrassed, provided a warm shawl. "I know you probably have nicer things," he said hurriedly, "but nothing will keep you warmer."

Holmes's gift came last. He handed me a small box wrapped only in white paper, and his hand lingered on it briefly as though he disliked to part with it. Carefully, almost painfully slowly, I unwrapped the object and slid open the lid.

Inside was a round silver locket with delicate vine and bird patterns engraved on the cover. It lay heavy in my hand and I could tell immediately that it was precious.

"It belonged to my mother," Holmes explained quietly. Then he cleared his throat and added, "Press the catch."

I ducked my head and examined the locket to hide the tears in my eyes. Holmes clearly valued this possession greatly, and to entrust it to me was a show of friendship greater than anything I had expected. Every time I thought that I knew the man, thought that I could define the odd relationship which was like a razor-sharp thread of glass between us, he surprised me.

I pressed the catch as instructed and the locket flew open to reveal the face of a delicate watch. The hands were shaped like the spades on a deck of playing cards, so slim and mirrored that they were almost invisible. Stately roman numerals edged the face and a gentle ticking, so warm and soft that it reminded me of a bird's heartbeat, thrummed against my hand.

My eyes met his and I knew that they were visibly brimming with tears. "Holmes. I don't know what to say." I looked at the watch again, searching for a word to describe such mechanical grace. "It's… stunning."

"Isn't it?" Holmes stepped forward and lifted the watch by its seemingly-liquid chain. "Here."

He ducked to fasten the clasp. I saw Mrs. Hudson speaking to Dr. Watson as though through a wall of rippled glass, saw Ronnie waggling her eyebrows suggestively from where she was trapped outside of this moment. I could hear her voice calling Holmes my gentleman friend, and then I realized how much I longed to lean back so that his nimble fingers would brush my neck.

Before Ronnie had made her assumptions, I had never considered Holmes as a _man_ before, not really, and certainly not in any romantic light. But now that the idea was in my head I could feel his presence so strongly, like a magnetic pull behind me and I just wanted to lean into him, to sit in front of the fire with our shoulders touching, just to embrace him and not fear that he would pull away in surprise and disgust-

"It suits you." I startled out of the manic ramblings of my mind to see that Holmes was once again standing in front of me, a soft smile playing about his mouth. I could feel the weight of the watch and its gentle ticking against my breastbone.

I wanted to say something. The quasi-logical part of my mind wanted to just ask, to clarify the nature of our relationship, to ask Holmes to stop looking at me like I was a real person and go back to treating me like a mechanized assistant if that was how he thought of me. Then the true logic intervened before I could spoil my evening.

My hand drifted up to rest on the precious gift. "Thank you, Holmes. I will treasure it." He nodded, as if to say that he would not have given it to me if he didn't believe that I would, and suddenly the moment had passed.

_Damned sherry,_ I thought irritable. _Russell, you know more than anyone that you can't drink to save your life. You need to sleep it off._

So after less than an hour more of cheerful conversation and struggling to stay awake in front of the hypnotizing fire, I made sure that Ronnie was comfortable getting home alone and excused myself to my closet.

"It was a wonderful evening everyone," I said over and over as I made my retreat. "Thank you so much. No, Mrs. Hudson, I'm afraid I don't have room for even another bite of the tart. Yes, it was delicious. Yes, I do have some nightclothes. Yes. Thank you. A wonderful evening."

Thankfully I soon escaped and nearly ran down the stairs to the cool and darkness of my closet. I only stood breathing heavily in the pitch black for a moment before feeling my way through undressing and slipping under the covers of the mattress on the floor. The drink and the internal turmoil battled for a few minutes, but I fell asleep almost immediately.

* * *

I awoke suddenly from another nightmare. They were less frequent now but just as vivid, and as I struggled to free myself from the groggy fingers of sleep the terror was very real.

Eventually, I remembered where I was and where the matches and candles were, so I lit one and breathed evenly in a few more minutes, letting the light do its work. The watch Holmes had given me was still around my neck, and its tiny heartbeat mirrored my own in an oddly comforting way.

I decided that I needed to walk for a minute, so I stood, blew out the candle, and crept out onto the landing. Here I could still see, albeit dimly, and I heard a clock downstairs chime three. Not unusually, however, I could hear violin music flowing down the stairs. I debated briefly with my better judgment and eventually tiptoed up to the door of 221B, prepared to escape at any moment.

The streamers were still strewn about the room and a few candles still guttered in their perches. The fire was barely more than embers, yet still Holmes stood in front of it, drawing that strange, thoughtful tune from the violin. I suddenly recognized it as the waltz he had played on that rainy October day before our first case together.

I leaned against the door and listened for several minutes, not belying my presence by breath nor by motion. Holmes did not dance with the tune tonight, but only stood and stared into the fire as he played.

After perhaps four minutes, the song reached its finale with a showy arpeggio and Holmes let the instrument fall from his shoulder to hang lifelessly opposite the bow. He stood like this for most of a minute while I watched, feeling that I was intruding but too nervous to move in the sudden silence. Then, all of a sudden, he lashed out with a foot to kick his soft chair. When he collided with it and the wooden frame beneath the cushions, he uttered a low cry and tossed his violin into the chair opposite before throwing himself down into the offending furniture, resting his head wearily in one hand.

I saw no more, for I withdrew stealthily, frightened for some reason by this second uncharacteristic show of emotion, and stole back to my closet to spend several more hours in wakefulness before the ticking of the watch lulled me back into an uneasy slumber.

* * *

_At what point does writing fanfiction become a diagnosable problem? Send help. :-P Haha in all seriousness this story is RIDICULOUSLY fun to write, please review so I know what people like!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay, guys! School has started and it's going to be harder for me to upload regularly. But I'd still love to hear from you in the comments!

Fair warning: this chapter includes some disturbing imagery, including kidnapping and death. Later chapters will include torture and other dark themes. I try to keep it from getting too graphic, but please keep this in mind and use appropriate discretion.

* * *

**Chapter VIII**

The morning after my eventful birthday, I awoke early. I dressed in the dark in an old dress that was still folded in a corner of the closet and tugged a brush through my heavily curled hair, plaiting it back into its usual form. I could feel the remnants of the sherry from the previous night slowing my thoughts and dulling my senses, but a steady seep of cold air from beneath the door kept me alert enough to struggle through my routine and step cautiously out onto the landing.

The frigid air was coming down from 221B, and my curiosity overcame the apprehensiveness brought on by last night's strange events. The door was open, as was usual, and there was a fresh smear of slush near the frame. Either Watson or Holmes had been out recently, and it seemed unlikely that Watson would be up.

The flat was silent but remnants of Holmes's work were strewn about the place, hiding any remaining evidence of the previous night's festivities. Old and creased newspapers littered the table and various files were pulled from their normal places on the shelves. He had a case, then. I wondered why he hadn't mentioned it to me.

I had to smile when I saw Holmes. He had fallen asleep in his chair, pipe dangling from fingers and the ash spilled out onto the floor. The window behind him was open and a few snowflakes had flecked his dark hair with white. Someone, probably Dr. Watson, had thrown a blanket across his knees.

I examined his face. It was tight and drawn and there were circles under his eyes. In the dawn's first light reflected in from the snow, his pale face seemed even more sallow than it had the previous night.

As I turned to examine the newspapers for clues as to the nature of the case, a shiver ran down my spine. I was wrapped in the shawl which Watson had given me, so it wasn't the sharp air from the window. I waited for the feeling to become more clear, and, after a few seconds, the hair on the back of my neck raised. Something was wrong. What had I seen? What had my subconscious noticed?

Watson was snoring in an adjacent room. He certainly hadn't been in or out recently. I took a few brisk steps and crouched to dip my finger into the small pile of ashes beneath Holmes's limp hand. They were completely cold. He had been asleep here for some time.

But the ice in the man's bootprint by the door had not yet melted.

I stood up and pulled my hands into the defensive position which Holmes had taught me one warm spring day, the first step in the style of fighting which was his own unique blend of Oriental arts and traditional boxing. I was guarded, my stance was stable- until it wasn't. A wave of nausea hit me with a throb of my head and I staggered, wondering that the sherry was still affecting me so strongly.

_Wrong again, _an urgent and entirely internal voice whispered to me. _You've been drugged, and so has Holmes. He opened the window to keep himself awake. Check beneath the blanket._

I obeyed this intuition as though in a daze, clinging to the back of the chair to keep upright. Whatever was wreaking havoc on my balance was only worsening the longer I was alert. Sure enough, when I tugged the blanket to the floor, I could see that Holmes had his pistol clutched tight in his other hand, aimed discreetly at the door. He had succumbed to the drugs too, then.

Terror raced through me, its process slowed as the vile substance turned my muscles and bones alike to sludge. I fell to my knees at Holmes's side, still clutching the chair, and a horrifying thought hit me much later than it should have. I snatched at his hand, pale and still as it was, but had trouble making my fingers find the wrist. It was cold and stiff and utterly unresponsive. I opened my mouth to cry out but my leaden tongue would only allow me a grief-stricken moan.

"I told you it'd work," a deep voice announced from the doorway. It was all I could do to turn my head towards the noise as my vision wavered and I struggled to keep the contents of my stomach down. A stereotypically thug-like gentleman with a red face and meaty hands was watching me, clearly satisfied with his accomplishments. "It goes in waves like that. Now there won't be any evidence of us forcing the lock on her door."

Another man, this one small and reptilian and utterly sinister, appeared. "Shut up, you idiot, she's still conscious." He stepped forward and crouched to leer at me. "Enjoying yourself, little missy?"

I glared at him as I swayed but didn't dare attempt to move my arms enough to take a swing.

"That's what I thought. You're going to have a nice, long sleep very soon, and when you wake up we're going to have a little talk about some things."

Then the dark at the edges of my vision contracted, and a great rush of vertigo overwhelmed me. Something hit my face which I later identified as the floor. Then nothing.

* * *

When I awoke I guessed that I had been asleep for some hours. Through the bars of a small window streamed the late afternoon sunlight unique to that part of the winter. I pushed myself up off of the rough, cold stone floor, relieved that the nausea at least seemed to have dissipated, and examined my surroundings.

The window was the only light. I appeared to be in some kind of cellar with the walls hewn directly from the hard-packed dirt. It was of a color which I did not recognize from any of the regions within London, but it was similar to some, so I thought that I wasn't far.

Watson's shawl had been tossed haphazardly on top of me and I pulled it close. He must have had it in 221B for some days before the party, because it carried that unique and familiar smell. I pressed my face to it and breathed the scents of pipe tobacco and gunpowder which I had first found so unpleasant. Tears pricked at my eyes. Holmes was dead and I had been unable to defend him or myself. All of his teachings were for naught, it would seem.

I noticed a tin cup of water and a small loaf of bread on the floor. Suddenly I realized the dryness of my mouth and the hollowness of my stomach, so I downed these quickly after sniffing them for any traces of narcotics. There was no way for me to escape now, that was clear enough. The heavy oak door would be bolted from the outside, the bars on the window securely built into the wall. My captors were certainly too intelligent to keep me captive where any screams might be heard.

With this solace of disappointment and hopelessness, I crawled to the corner and allowed the tears to escape. Soon they were running in little streams down my face, shaken free by hiccoughing sobs. Then my face was pressed into the shawl as I wept bitterly.

I hadn't cried like this since after the funeral of my family. Then, I had sat with my disapproving aunt and sobbed like I would never live again. I had still had that gnawing guilt in my heart when I came to London, had tried to escape it in the foggy streets. But I hadn't lost it, truly come out from under the shadow and begun to live again, until my life at 221. There were people who cared and as many diverting puzzles as I could want. I felt human again.

Now Holmes was dead. Dead and cold in his chair, and I had _smiled_. I had thought him asleep after a long night of work. I had seen my closest friend's corpse and smiled.

This thought brought the bitter tang of nausea back to my tongue, but I swallowed hard and made myself keep the meager meal inside. The coldly logical part of me knew that it would be a long time before my next food.

_Will Watson be the one to find him? The one to wake smiling from a good dream and come out to breakfast, tying his dressing gown and ready to face the excited Holmes, and discover him, cold and stiff, still clutching his gun and his pipe, snow collecting in his hair and eyebrows?_

Against my will the images flowed. Holmes lying for hours because Watson was still drugged, snow filling his hollow cheekbones and frost settling in his eyelashes, the pipe eventually falling silently to the carpet as the entire room was infiltrated by the winter. Ice obscuring the pictures on the newspaper. Icicles across the mantelpiece, the tobacco slipper the odd one out like a children's differences game.

The light from outside faded and still I cried. Some small childish part of me deep inside hoped that I would hear the door bang open and Holmes would be there, pistol in hand, alert and ready to defend me from unknown dangers just because he had heard me cry out. _If he comes in and rescues me, _I promised myself, _I will kiss him. I will kiss him like I wanted to when he was waltzing alone in front of the fire, and when we bantered in the cab after our first case, and when he fastened his mother's locket around my neck._

Just as that scene replayed in my mind, I remembered that I was still wearing the watch. Clearly my abductors had no wish to take my valuables, for the priceless silver necklace was still resting against my chest. _Tip, tip, tip_ went the delicate inner mechanisms in the silent room. _Tap, tap, tap,_ a pipe being emptied, impatient fingers on the table.

"_Well, Russell?"_

I sniffed and wiped the tears from beneath my glasses. I was eighteen years old, damn it, and I was Sherlock Holmes's apprentice. I could focus long enough to evade some petty kidnappers without losing myself in girlish fantasies.

"_Not petty. That attack was well-planned. It got past me, so it must have been."_

I closed my eyes. "You were working late at night, after I saw you playing violin," I whispered, finding it easier to pretend that my friend and mentor was listening and judging every word which came out of my mouth. "But then you stopped and sat up to guard the door. You noticed the effects of the drugs and opened the window. It must have been something in the newspapers which tripped your realization," I murmured, wishing that I had had more than a cursory glance at them before events began unfolding. "They were old. An old case, perhaps, a nemesis out for blood?" I furrowed my brow. "But why would they kill you before kidnapping me, if it was you they wished to harm?" I pushed that theory aside and started anew. "Someone made one attempt, and you subdued them, but rather than wake the house or call the police you sat watch."

The disappointment was palpable. "Yes, yes, I know, you would have stood watch in a more strategic position so as to protect the other inhabitants of the house. That makes no sense. So you knew that you were drugged and couldn't risk going downstairs. You opened the window and sat up as long as you could but eventually succumbed. If you had suspected that any of the rest of us was in danger, however," I realized, "you would have risked the climb. If you could open the window then you could get down to the landing."

"_Really, Russell," Holmes said agitatedly as he took a long draw on his pipe. The flare illuminated his face for a brief second before his features faded back into the darkness. His watchful eyes bored into my face. "The newspapers. Why did you not look at the newspapers?"_

"_I'm sorry, Holmes!" I cried. "I don't know how any of this will help me, besides!"_

"_Knowledge is power, Russell. And right now you have no power, so you must find knowledge."_

Our exchange was interrupted by my being woken from the restless dream to see that it was once again morning. A figure stood in the doorway across from me and I jumped to my feet, only to fall back against the wall as I recognized the dull pressure in my arm. Someone had injected me with more narcotics as I slept.

I blinked against the light and cried out when I recognized the figure.

"Sidney?"

The old man looked at me sadly. "I am sorry, Miss Russell. This is the only way." His London accent was gone and replaced with the concise drawl of the American South.

"But… Sidney?" I asked again, too appalled to believe that he could somehow be behind this.

He only shook his head. Now that he was standing up straight, hands in pockets and in control of the situation, I could see that he really wasn't quite as old as I had thought. His familiar face still shocked me, however. I had looked across the counter at this man and asked for his recommendations for a rainy day read, had spent hours in his shop with him for my sole company.

Before I could react further, however, he had left. The door swung shut with a decisive thump and I heard multiple locks slide into place. The drugs were catching up to me, I noticed with panic as I fell to the floor, black swirling around me and a babble of voices, some belonging to my family but mostly Holmes's, ricocheting around the inside of my skull.

"Please," I whispered to a streak of grit on the stone floor. "Please."

Then, once again, nothing.

* * *

_*dramatic music* Well guys, what do you think? Theories? Suggestions? Hate-filled rants? Bring it on!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **Violence warning for this chapter. In other news, IT'S FRIDAY! Have a good weekend everyone, and I'll update as soon as I can. Please review as usual because it makes my day and lets me know what you like!

* * *

**Chapter IX**

Two more days came and went while I rested and gathered my information. I ate every scrap of the bread provided and drank the water. After the first day, I realized that, if I rattled the cup against the door, a guard would open a small slatted window and take it to be refilled. A pot was provided for my needs twice a day. I was no longer drugged when I fell asleep. Over all, I was well-treated.

This was one of the vital clues which helped to lead me to a conclusion. Clearly, my removal from the scene was the only purpose, for I wasn't being paraded, tortured, or otherwise used. This probably meant that I was being used to get to someone else, or else being held for ransom. Holmes, the only person I knew who was important enough for someone to manipulate them in such a way, was dead. Since my fit of tears, I had pressed down the emotions around this to be addressed at a future therapy session. For now, it was only a fact.

My aunt was in charge of my fortune. She might be asked to surrender it in exchange for my release, but I doubted that the matter would even reach the authorities if that was the case. Anyone with a carefully-planned kidnapping plan would have realized how little time she and I spent in each other's company.

Besides, Holmes had anticipated the attack, but not on me. He had thought only that he himself was in danger. Perhaps he had been the target, then, but how would my kidnapping affect him if he was dead?

Then it hit me, and I could have slapped myself. Holmes wasn't dead! Of course he was cold; he had been sitting in front of an open window in January for hours. And in the mad scramble of panic, it was possible, in fact likely, that I had simply missed his sleepy pulse. That was the only reasonable explanation.

I stood up in excitement, ready to laugh or cry or both, and the empty room stared back at me in the dying light. Before I could make a choice, however, the door was opened a crack and a tray was slid inside.

I approached cautiously, as usual, prepared to take the bread and water and retreat back to my side of the room, and saw that a bowl of stew accompanied the meal and the water had been replaced with a steaming cup of tea. My first reaction was relief; frost had been forming on my eyelashes when I slept huddled on the floor under Watson's shawl. The tips of my fingers were numb and stiff with cold and they welcomed the warmth of the chipped mug.

Then my suspicions were aroused. The nice food was probably meant to tempt me into consuming something I would rather not without stopping to think about it. I sniffed at the tea, but my only complaint was that it didn't seem as strong as I would have preferred. The stew also seemed to be perfectly fine.

A thought occurred to me, and I pulled the smallest crumb from the loaf of bread and touched it to my tongue. Very, very faintly, I could taste a cloying sweetness that was out of place. Whoever had me captive was incredibly clever to put the drugs into the only food I would trust.

I took the entire tray back to where the shawl was bundled on the floor to make a kind of cushion and sat down. The stew was hearty and dense with beef and vegetables and it filled my stomach and gave me strength like I hadn't had since my capture. I allowed the tea to warm my fingers for a few minutes before sipping at it. When I was finished and had hidden the bread in a fold of my skirt, I stood and stretched, feeling the blood inching back into my fingers, toes, and ears. I jumped up and down and pinwheeled my arms a few times, ran in place, kicked my legs up as high as they would go. Suddenly I was confident in my own strength. I punched an imaginary foe squarely in the jaw.

If I was being held hostage to manipulate Holmes, then something- or someone- truly devious was at work here. I had to get out and back to Holmes so that we could face the threat together.

I picked up the tray and moved it back to the door, then lifted the mug to clank it purposefully against the wall. "Hey," I called loudly, "can I have some more tea?"

The small window in the door slid open, as I had expected, and I made as though to hand the cup through. At the last second, however, I darted out my hand and grabbed that of the guard, yanking it inside as he cried out in pain. When he staggered forward, I managed to wriggle my other hand through just far enough to grab the front of his shirt. With him thus secured, I pulled one of his fingers as far backwards as it would go without breaking.

"If you would be so kind as to open the door," I asked politely.

The guard gasped as the tiny bones and ligaments in his hand creaked. "I ca-can't!"

_Snap._ I looked at the bent appendage for a moment, the beginnings of disgust roiling in my stomach, before gripping the next digit. "Open the door."

"No!" This time it was a sob. The sob of a young man who didn't know what he was getting into when he signed up with my captor.

_Snap._

Now a shriek as he tried to pull his hand back through before I could do more damage, but I had him in too tight a grip, and he was bent over and off-balance. The shriek died and resolved into a low moan.

"Please," I asked quietly, dragging a nail along the man's ring finger. A shudder rolled through the hand and into me and I hated myself for doing it, but I had to get out. I had to get back to Holmes. "Very well," I said lightly, wrapping my entire hand around the finger and beginning to bend it-

"No, wait!" he gasped, and I waited as I heard the bolts slide back. When the door inched open, I released the poor man's hand and kicked it open. I stepped out to stand above him, and I saw just how young he was. Barely older than myself, in fact, and cowering on the floor as he cradled his broken hand. Tears streamed down his face.

"Here," I said softly, producing the bread and laying it down next to him. "If you're still alone when you wake up, eat this. The drugs will take away the pain for a while."

He looked at me, confused and frightened. "What do you mean, when I wake up?"

"This." I brought my foot around with a precisely-calculated force to connect with the boy's temple, thus neatly eliminating him from the equation.

I was standing in a short, dimly-lit hallway, which culminated in a short flight of stone stairs and another heavy-looking door. The only light was a guttering candle in a holder next to the unconscious guard, and I picked this up and stepped cautiously towards the door. I could hear nothing as I neared, so I pressed my ear to the rough wood.

"…serves us right for saying anything, I suppose." I was startled to hear that it was a woman speaking, and a young one at that.

"Of course! Daniel was perfectly all right to guard the kid himself, all your nonsense about extra guards was for nothing. And now we can't sleep until dawn," another female voice replied.

The first voice moaned. "I can't believe we've only been here for six hours. It seems like so much longer!"

I felt a rush of triumph. Two young women, tired after a long stint of guard duty and complacent in the face of another uneventful several hours, would be easy to overpower. I silently tested the doorknob as Holmes had taught me. Unlocked. I set down the candle, noticing the light emanating from around the door, and stretched my joints. Then, in one rapid motion, I opened the door.

The two women sat at the table, which was spotted by the light of three windows too high to reach. My attention was immediately drawn away from them, however, by the five burly men seated in front of the fire. They all looked up at me as I entered and grinned crookedly.

One of them turned to his neighbor while I stood frozen. "Like clockwork, isn't she? Just like he said."

"You figured out our little puzzle!" another exclaimed in mock delight. "Good for you, little girl."

_Little girl,_ I snarled inwardly, right hand darting to the scar on my palm. That dangerous flare of confidence and competition tore through me, sending my eyes searching about the room. My mind flickered through thoughts lightning-fast.

_Fire poker. Coals. Women's eyes, first two men in two strokes. Gain table, disable with kick and stab another, assess position of fifth._

Before I had even finished planning my attack, I had launched myself off of the wall and straight at the women, who flinched away. I rolled between them to grab the fire poker. I swept the hem of my shawl into the coals, scooping up plenty of suitable projectiles and scorching my hands in the process, and flung them into their eyes, leaving them to lie screaming on the floor. Flaming garment trailing behind me, I swung about to dismiss two of the men with strokes from the poker, slicing the neck of one and gouging the eyes of the other. Then I vaulted from an overturned chair to land, catlike, on the table, and spun with leg outstretched to detach another man with a solid shoe heel to the head and get a couple of quick stabs into the fourth.

Before I could deal with the fifth man, however, he had scooped my legs out from underneath me and pinned me face-down on the table. My glasses slid down my nose. I heard the sound of a blade being pulled from a case as I wriggled and panicked, choked by the layers of dirt and dust on the wood. He heaved himself up to straddle my hips and prevent me from moving, and I thought that the pressure would crack my spine. Then, suddenly, his rough hands were tugging and tearing at the neck of my dress.

I took the only option open to a woman in my situation and screamed with all of my voice. A hoarse, ragged cry of animal terror ripped from my throat as I struggled fruitlessly.

The sound of his chuckle made me feel physically ill. "Don't flatter yourself, little girl. I'm just sending a message."

The point of the icy blade pressed into my right shoulder blade and I stopped struggling, unable to do anything but shake uncontrollably as obscenely delicate fingers stroked my bare back, planning carefully their horrible art.

After a few seconds of this, and utterly without warning, the blade sliced wetly through my skin in a single short stroke. I tried to cry out but only managed to wheeze out a great quantity of stale air. Another quick cut, and another, and soon the warm blood was pooling on my back and running down over my arm. Still the delicate carving continued and I eventually identified it as writing. _Sending a message._

When the man had finished, he reached around to where Holmes's locket rested on the table, the chain flung outwards from my chest. He pulled it out of my sight and this time I did cry out as I heard the screech of metal against metal.

Then it was over. He pulled me upright by the offended arm, sending waves of searing pain through my back. Once I was satisfactorily vertical, he shepherded me down another hallway which I had not noticed before and to a partially-open door. This led to a narrow cobbled street, silver with ice and the first light of the moon, and I was propelled face-forward down to the ground with a hearty laugh.

"Say hello to Mr. Holmes for us, won't you?" And the door shut.

* * *

After stumbling and crawling for most of an hour, I found another human who wasn't too drunk to notice me. It was a man, standing outside his doorway and enjoying a leisurely cigar. I could barely see this, of course, because I was still steadily losing blood and had been without any medical attention since the attack.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, running over to me as I fell to my knees for the umpteenth time. "Lady, are you all right?"

"Baker Street," I begged. "I have to get to Baker Street."

A supporting arm went around my waist and, when it became clear that I couldn't stand, another tucked under my knees to carry me. Through the darkness and the pounding in my ears, I heard the sound of a cab being hailed.

"You need to get to a doctor," the man insisted.

"No, I beg of you. 221 Baker Street. I must see Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

I flitted in and out of consciousness as the cab rattled towards our destination. I hadn't even the energy to ask whether we were indeed going to Baker Street.

After some long stretch of time, we stopped and I heard my concerned rescuer jump out and bang on a door. In the silence that followed, I caught the strains of a violin's playing. That waltz again, but slow and mournful and entirely different. We were at Baker Street, then.

The man banged on the door again and I heard it creak open.

"What is it?" Mrs. Hudson asked tiredly.

"I have a lady here who must see Sherlock Holmes," the man insisted.

There was a pause, and then she responded. "I suppose I can ask, but I doubt he's taking any clients at the moment."

"Thank you. Please hurry." Steps tramped away. The stair protested. I breathed in some of the crystalline night air and it burned my lungs. I still couldn't see.

Then I heard the window slide open and that dear, longed-for voice, so familiar and yet so startling after my days of solitude, called down, dripping with anger. "Take your petty infidelity and blackmail and leave, whoever you are!" I opened my mouth to try and speak but could only croak. "If you read the papers you would know that I am engaged in a murder case of the utmost importance!"

_Murder? _I wondered. _Not kidnapping? Is he on another case, or does he think me dead?_

I summoned up the rest of my meager strength and tumbled down from the hansom. The driver seemed to be ignoring the entire exchange and offered me no assistance. I staggered upright, leaning heavily against the vehicle for support, and turned my face up to where I knew the window to be.

The dark spots obscuring my vision parted for a mere fraction of a second and I could see Holmes's face, illuminated by the clear winter starlight, staring down at me, an expression of pure shock across his features. I knew by his face that I was visible, too. Neither of us moved for a second or two.

Then I heard the discord of an instrument crashing to the floor and wild running footsteps down the stairs. My vision faded once more and the night returned to its natural darkness. The cool, smooth surface of the cab was pressed against my back where my dress had been torn, and it was soothing on my wounds. It felt as though I was spinning high in the air though I could feel my feet planted firmly on the ground, and it was only just in time that Holmes reached me, for my legs were shaking uncontrollably and were about to give out.

"Russell," he murmured, relief and awe and the residual fright coloring his voice in fascinating ways. I felt his hands guide me back to the entrance of the hansom, push me gently into a sitting position, tug the shawl closer around my shoulders after pausing to brush over my wounds. He gave no reaction so I guessed that the words were not readable. Perhaps I had only imagined that it was writing.

His long fingers brushed a few loose strands of hair back behind my ears. Their tips dusted across my cheekbones, they adjusted the shawl again, pushed my glasses back into place, came to rest on my shoulders. I realized that I hadn't said anything yet.

"Holmes," I tried to begin, squinting up at him in an attempt to make out his features. My voice was raspy and hoarse from screaming and exhaustion but I thought that it was probably understandable.

"What in God's name am I doing?" I heard him murmur to himself, and I was once again being lifted. I allowed my head to rest against his chest, relaxed and happy despite the pain. The scent of pipe smoke was so familiar and comforting that I almost fell asleep in his arms. To make myself stay conscious as he brusquely thanked my rescuer and brought me upstairs, to the shock and mild hysteria of Mrs. Hudson, I focused on observations, such as I could make. Could I determine whether or not Watson was home?

"Good Lord, is that Mary?" I heard the doctor ask. Well, that was easy enough.

I could feel a light dusting of stubble on Holmes's chin where it brushed my forehead. Whatever state of dishevelment his clothing was in, he always found time to shave. He had been greatly distracted the last few days, then.

After this, however, my mind became too sluggish to extract any more meaning from the world around me. I was deposited gently into a chair before the fire, where I curled and dozed while Watson cleaned my wounds and bandaged them. I heard a few exclamations of disgust from behind me, and I presumed that the "message" had been discovered. Eventually someone pressed a cup of water into my hands, which I drank greedily, then another, and then a good strong cup of tea. When I finally really was too weary to keep my head upright, Holmes started to lift me again, presumably to take me to a bed.

"No," I murmured. "Here. I want to- to see the fire."

So I was set back down and wrapped in fresh, clean blankets, and my vision slowly returned. The last thing that I saw before my eyes slid shut from pure exhaustion was a picturesque image of Holmes and Watson in their chairs before the fire. Both were watching me intently for any signs of illness, perhaps, or simply because they had thought never to see me again. Holmes clutched a pipe between his teeth but had not lit it, only fingered it thoughtfully and chewed the stem. Watson was pretending to read a book but had it held only comically high so as to be able to glance casually over it at me.

With this cheerful and familiar image at hand, a soft smile tugged uncontrollably at my mouth as I slipped into my first restful slumber in days.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the wait, guys! Believe me when I say that I'd rather be doing this than practicing stoichiometry or reading about the Founding Fathers (though admittedly both are quite interesting), but I'm a bit drowning in homework at the moment. I'll aim for an update a week but I can't promise anything. In the meantime, this is the longest chapter so far, so enjoy and please review!

* * *

**Chapter X**

When I awoke it was midmorning, according to the clock on the mantelpiece. Something seemed terribly wrong to me, however, as if my heart had stopped beating. For a moment I truly thought that this was the case, dazed as I was, until I realized what was out of place: the watch was no longer ticking.

I glanced around the flat and saw that I was alone. I moved aside a fold of Watson's shawl, which was by now horribly burnt and bloodied and torn, and tugged the chain out from the front of my dress. To my great horror, my captor had completely destroyed the gorgeous locket. The case was deeply gouged so that the pattern was no longer visible. Full of desperate hope, I pressed the catch, only to be rewarded with a sprinkling of broken glass which nipped at my hands as it fell to collect in a fold on my lap. I gently shook it next to my ear and could hear the internal mechanisms jingling about uselessly.

"Russell?" I looked up, tears in my eyes, to see Holmes standing in the doorway. He must have noticed my miserable expression for he came cautiously forwards into the room. "Is something wrong? Does your shoulder pain you?"

I held up the mauled locket as an explanation. "Your lovely gift," I said unevenly. "He destroyed it. I don't think it can be fixed, Holmes."

He stepped forward and took the object from me, holding it by the tips of his long fingers. A slight frown distorted his mouth for mere seconds before he laid it on a table and sat down opposite me, fingers steepled and gaze intense.

"Russell, I am hardly concerned with trinkets in the present situation. What information can you give me about your kidnappers? It is of the utmost importance to me that they be brought to justice as soon as is possible." His words were formal and businesslike but his voice belied the tension which had been plaguing him in past days.

I sat up straight and intentionally matched his tone. "Please explain two things to me first, and I will recount in great detail all that I remember." I took the slight inclination of his head to be an affirmative. "I heard you and Watson exclaim at the wounds on my back. I deduced from the manner of strokes inflicted by the knife that they were to form words. What do they say?"

Holmes must have known that this would be my first line of inquiry, yet his face still twisted with sour disgust and it was several seconds before he attempted to answer. "It says-" And here his fists and jaw clenched and it was yet longer before he could compose himself. "Carved into your shoulder are the words 'Hello, Mr. Holmes.'"

_I was propelled face-forward down to the ground with a hearty laugh. "Say hello to Mr. Holmes for us, won't you?"_

I shuddered, feeling the abused skin throb and burn against Watson's carefully applied bandage. "I suppose that that confirms my theory, such as it is. My other question is this: I heard you yell at the man who brought me here that you were engaged in a murder case."

I didn't need to add the obvious inquisitive conclusion. Had my case been thought to be one of murder, or had Holmes been engaged on another case?

In response, Holmes stood and came to stand next to me. This was the first moment that I realized that I was occupying the same chair which he habitually inhabited and the chair where I had found him that morning and thought him to be dead. Holmes bent to lift the edge of an odd rug which had not been there the last I had seen this room. Beneath was a disturbingly large burgundy stain, certainly more blood than could be the result of a single injury.

"There was also a note," Holmes continued after we had both stared at the grotesque sight for a minute. He deposited a thoroughly-wrinkled piece of paper into my waiting hands. I could immediately see that it had been analyzed to within an inch of its life, with samples absent from the corners and strange chemicals spotting the ink. It was simple, generic handwriting, probably male, and read "The loss of the girl was unfortunate. Keep the others close." I frowned and handed it back.

Holmes froze for a moment as he accepted the paper. "Russell, surely you did not think that I was on some other case while I knew you to be missing?"

My abashed silence was answer enough. Holmes sighed as he threw himself down into the other chair. "For God's sake, Russell, you must take me to be a heartless automaton. I haven't slept," he continued forcefully, "since I awoke and found that note. I hoped that you might be alive but I couldn't focus clearly enough to see past their obvious ruse. It's been… hell," he finished. He drew a deep breath and looked at me. I was started by his fervor, especially after the careful mask he had displayed minutes before.

I swallowed and tried to think of something to say. "I'm glad to be home," I began before I realized that I _was_ at home. My aunt's house held no affection for me. "My aunt!" I exclaimed. "Did she even know that I was gone?"

Holmes watched me from under his eyebrows. "She was kept updated by the police. She has been informed that you are safe and expressed a preference to stay here for a time."

I nodded my thanks just as Watson strode, overly-cheerful and clearly in a doctoring mindset, into the room. "Mary! How are you feeling this morning?"

I flexed a few muscles to address their condition. "Grimy and stiff, I should say," I responded, forcing myself to smile as muscles all over my body cried out in pain. My fingers popped as they bent and, rolling my neck, I was disgusted by the way that tendrils of my hair stuck to the blood and dirt on my neck. "Am I permitted to indulge in a bath, doctor?"

Watson briefly probed my bandages. "I think that that would be acceptable."

I turned to Holmes. "I'm sorry to hold you in suspense, but perhaps I could relay my story after I am bathed and dressed?"

Holmes waved a hand unconcernedly as he stood. I hardly had time be surprised at his reaction before he had lit a pipe and was pacing the floor of the small flat.

* * *

It took me a good hour because of my injuries and my distaste at removing myself from the comfort of the bath, but I eventually made my way back to 221B, hair loose and damp because I could not easily lift my arms to put it back. I had had one other dress in my closet, a new rich purple one with lightly puffed sleeves and a gentle flare as it reached the tops of my shoes, but could not bring myself to work my tortured body into the ridiculous figure. Therefore, I was dressed in the new men's clothing which Ronnie had given me for my birthday five days previously.

As I entered, I could see Mrs. Hudson laying an extravagant luncheon on the table, and I realized for the first time that I was hungry and thirsty after the long night. She saw me come in and smiled brightly. "Miss Russell, it is good to have you back!"

"I'm very happy to be back, Mrs. Hudson."

She looked as though she might embrace me for a moment, but then apparently thought better of it when she remembered my injuries. She set down a plate piled high with sandwiches, some cold chicken, and a carafe of wine to complete the table before taking her tray and bustling off downstairs.

"Well, Russell?" I heard Holmes ask, and turned to see him still standing and smoking.

I cast a longing glance at the array of food but dutifully went to sit in a chair before the fire. "Yes. Well, I awoke early the morning after my birthday. I was tired, but I thought that perhaps it was only the aftereffects of the sherry. A cold breeze coming from upstairs helped to keep me alert as I dressed, and then I came to identify its source. As I entered the room I saw a bit of ice on the doorframe and assumed that you had been out recently. However, you were asleep in your chair…"

I proceeded to recount every relevant detail of the preceding days, including my theories. Holmes alternated between sitting and smoking thoughtfully and standing and pacing. Occasionally he would dart a glance at me when some particularly interesting detail came up, but otherwise he seemed more absorbed in his feet. When I described my escape attempt, my voice faltered, but I plowed through.

After nearly half an hour, I had finished my tale, ending with my rescuer taking me by cab to Baker Street. In the ensuing lull, my stomach growled audibly.

Holmes puffed away on his pipe, brow furrowed and eyes downcast with his long legs draped over the arm of his chair. When it was clear that he wasn't taking any notice of me, I stood and went to partake of Mrs. Hudson's delightful spread. Even as I ate and he thought in complete silence, there was a subtle companionship between us that I had missed desperately during my captivity.

I stuffed myself and watched as Holmes lit a second, then a third pipe. The minutes stretched into an hour, then more, and after I had taken my things back down to the kitchen he was still deep in thought.

I wandered over to where the locket still lay on the table. Picking it up, I saw again just how damaged it was. I knew its value to Holmes and that he would probably be upset about it later, but I doubted that he would let me see it. Perhaps I would take it to a jeweler's and see what could be done.

"And you're certain that it was this Sidney fellow?"

Starting, I turned to face Holmes, who was watching me intently from his chair. "Yes, quite sure."

"Do you still have the books you bought from him?"

"All of them," I confirmed. "Most of them are in my closet." The walls of that small room were slowly becoming hidden by piles and stacks of reading material. Without another word, Holmes stood and strode briskly out and down the stairs. I followed him, filled with that inexplicable panic you feel when someone is about to enter your personal place. "I could get them for you, you know, if you want to look over them-" But then it was too late and the door had been flung open.

I tried to see the space through his eyes. A tiny mattress draped in blankets and pillows was shoved against the left wall. By the head was a stack of boxes where I kept clothing and other personal objects. I had brought a few of my more treasured possessions from my room in my aunt's residence. The entire right wall was stacked with books. One pile served as a low table and held a dirty mug, a candle, and a little mirror. Soot stained the ceiling in various places and there was a very lived-in feeling.

I hesitated in the doorway while Holmes charged ahead, clearly moving rapidly from the stage of deep thought to that of manic investigation. He displaced two tall stacks of books and began looking through them, probably looking for patterns in the titles or some such nonsense. In his haste, he knocked aside one of the boxes and it spilled its contents out onto the bed.

This had been my childhood treasures box. After the accident, I had considered my childhood over and had refrained from going through the memories as I once had done so frequently. Now, a sort of morbid curiosity overcame me, and I felt drawn to these mementos of an entirely different life. I barely even remembered what the box contained.

As though in a trance, I sat on the edge of the mattress and began picking through the objects. Holmes watched with half of his gaze while he continued to rifle through the books. Here was a photograph of my family, all stony-faced because we had had to stand still for so long. My brother had a hand wrapped in my mother's skirt, my father had an arm each around her shoulders and mine. Here was a whistle that I had made out of a bit of reed one summer when we visited a lake. Here was a little jar of buttons, a little felt dog, two sheets of violin music from Vivaldi's "Four Seasons," a crude drawing of my old home. It was like looking through a window into someone else's childhood.

I picked up the box, prepared to replace its contents before the emotion of it caught up with me, and noticed something trapped in the very bottom. It was white and worn, and at first I mistook it for a bit of tissue wrapping. However, as I held it up to examine it, I saw that it was a white handkerchief, dirty and threadbare in many places, with a small, monogrammed _H_ in the corner.

I held the object in my palms like a baby bird, as though a breath would blow it away, and remembered something which had not occurred to me in years.

* * *

_"It was very nice of that boy to give you his handkerchief," my mother said softly as she untied it from my palm. I winced, expecting to see the gushing blood and torn skin from earlier, but was startled to see that the skin was already repairing._

_"It's a magic handkerchief!" I cried. "It made my hand better!"_

_My mother laughed and washed the injury with a warm cloth. "It certainly must be! I think that you'd better keep it for luck."_

_So I scrubbed the brownish stains from it and kept it in my pocket._

* * *

I only stared at the little piece of cloth for a long minute until Holmes noticed my stillness and turned to see what I had found.

"Is that-" he asked, just as surprised as I, when he caught sight of it.

"Yes."

We shared a moment of silence at the odd little memory. Then Holmes chuckled softly.

"It was very rude of you not to return it."

I grinned and held it up to show him how worn and dirtied it was. "You're welcome to it."

We laughed and turned to thumb through Sidney's books together. As sore as my shoulder still was, I could feel my spirits healing.

_A magical handkerchief with healing powers._ I smiled to myself. _I suppose it is. _


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** Yikes, sorry again! I wrote this last night after spending eight hours studying, and I haven't posted it until now because I spend another six hours studying today... *cries*

I just wanted to address something really fast: some of you have commented that this story is good enough to publish. First of all, THANK YOU. Those (and all!) comments make me grin helplessly. But fanfiction is what I write just to practice. I write a lot of it and don't spend too terribly long editing. I do it for fun and don't plan out the entire story in advance. This is what I do as a stress reliever and to try out different styles of writing.

My "actual" writing, my original fiction and sometimes nonfictional reflections, are the ones that I really plan out and storyboard and put lots of effort into in the hope that they'll one day be ready to publish. So while I really, _really _appreciate the comments, I don't think you'll ever see this published. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE this story and all my readers, but that's just not how it's intended. Besides, it's a fanfic of a fanfic! The copyright issues make me shudder...

Enjoy this chapter because who knows when the next one will be out. *sigh*

* * *

**Chapter XI**

"Still nothing?" I asked when I saw Holmes's discouraged expression. He only glared at me from where he was crouched on his chair, which I took as an affirmative.

It had been over two months since my kidnapping and all of our leads had led to forceful and disappointing dead ends. It was as though someone was always one step ahead of us to erase the evidence or silence a voice, and the longer we searched the more I suspected that that was the case. Now it was nearing the end of March and Holmes's other cases were taking up his time. That very morning he had received a letter telling him to expect a visitor of no small importance later in the evening. I suspected that this case might last another week at the least.

Meanwhile, the trail was growing cold. I will not bore my reader with the details, but tedious hours spent identifying a few of my captors and tracing my way back to the place where I had been held had ended in failures. Loath as Holmes was to drop the case, we were forced to wait for another lead.

I had been drifting about the flat all morning, waiting for Holmes to toss ideas at me like he occasionally did, but was met only by a blank, intense stare. Eventually I fell back into the habit of cleaning, though I could feel disapproval aimed at me as I did so. Finally, as the hours of the afternoon wore on and neither Watson nor Mrs. Hudson had returned home to supervise Holmes, I resorted to digging my way through one of the incredibly dense volumes on chemistry which littered the flat.

I was just trudging through Dalton's atomic theory when I heard Watson come in downstairs. I shut the book, startled to see that it was dark and probably long past when I should have eaten supper, but I was trapped by the jovial doctor before I could make an exit.

"Hello Mary!" he cried delightedly, and I had no choice but to smile through my fatigue and discouragement. "Do you know that no fewer than five people stopped me today to ask about my stories? Five! I must say, Doyle is doing an excellent job as an agent. You're becoming a household name, Holmes," he added to the figure in the chair, which didn't so much as grunt.

Over recent months, I had been struggling to reconcile my feelings for Holmes. He who had begun as a revered acquaintance and then reluctant friend and finally enthusiastic mentor was so difficult that I had almost given up trying to disentangle the matter. On the one hand, I could not deny that I enjoyed his intellectual company more than any person I had ever met, and I certainly found him aesthetically pleasing. But could he ever really be anything beyond a friend? Occasionally I would think that I saw some flicker of deeper warmth in his eye when I made some clever point about a case, or a flash of harsh protectiveness when I massaged my slow-healing shoulder, but then it would be gone and I would decide that I had imagined it.

I startled back to myself when I realized that both men were watching me. "Oh, I'm sorry Uncle John. That's excellent! You know that I love your stories." Apparently I wasn't convincing enough because he seemed to droop slightly. I tried harder. "In fact, I can't wait for the next one! Perhaps I could sneak a read before Doyle gets his hands on it?"

Watson's smile brightened. "I think that that might be a possibility."

Holmes groaned. "I do hope that there will be less drama in this one, my dear fellow. The way you portrayed me was quite fantastical." Watson harrumphed.

It was true that I enjoyed Watson's stories from a literary perspective, though I had to agree with Holmes that they were slightly over-romanticized. Still, when one spends one's time reading Dalton's atomic theory, a little romance now and then is welcome.

Mrs. Hudson arrived home soon after that and brought up a cold supper, which the three of us ate in companionable silence. I caught myself humming Holmes's waltz once, but at a startlingly sharp glance from the detective quieted me once more.

That waltz haunted my dreams. I never knew the name of it, and even the melody was only a half-remembered echo, but it underscored my nighttime imaginings and sprang to my lips in a wistful hum as I worked. It represented safety, somehow, and home. After hearing it only a handful of times, that association was so strong that whistling it during my captivity had brought me warmth and comfort like nothing else.

As we finished our supper, we heard steps thudding up the staircase and Mrs. Hudson following them, clearly harried. "Sir, I must protest! No one may see Mr. Holmes without an appointment-"

The cloaked and masked figure burst into the room and Holmes stood, throwing me a look so sarcastically solemn as to be comical, and I had to conceal a laugh. "It's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson. Our visitor here is expected." He gestured the man to a chair, but he ignored it.

I observed Watson teetering on the edge of leaving and stood first. "Gentlemen," I announced to the room at large, "I thank you for the lovely evening, but I'm afraid I must retire." I neglected to mention that I was retiring to a closet downstairs for our guest's sake. "Good night."

Watson nodded politely and Holmes inclined his head in that odd familiar way of his. "Good night, my dear Russell."

I smiled a tired half-smile and held up the book I had been reading, questioning. He nodded again imperceptibly. I pulled the volume to my chest and curtseyed to the client; I was too exhausted to put my finger on it, but my subconscious at least had detected an air of power.

With that, I escaped to the dark of the staircase and the quiet of my closet.

"An interesting case?" I asked Holmes as I wandered back into the room the next morning and poured myself a cup from the delightful-smelling coffee on the table.

_I've gone from the maid to an honorary resident,_ I thought to myself with amusement. _I really should ask Mrs. Hudson about rent for my closet._

Holmes grunted thoughtfully from his chair: a typical response.

"You know," I said, blowing gently on the steaming cup, "we haven't worked a case together in a while."

"Really?" Holmes mused. "It was my understanding that we had been working on a very important kidnapping case since early January." There was no bite to his tone but the words were harsh enough.

I put down my cup so that I could effectively place both hands on my hips, hot anger flaring within me. "Holmes! Surely you don't think that I've lost interest in the case of my own kidnapping? Leads have been short lately; I only meant that it might be refreshing to solve someone else's problems for a change."

To my surprise, Holmes sighed wearily. "I apologize, Russell. That was unfair of me."

Anger fading, I poured another cup of coffee and gave it to him, sitting in the opposite chair with my own drink. "Apology accepted. But I do wish to hear about this case and the masked nobleman who brought it to you."

His voice almost bored, Holmes outlined a classic story of love and betrayal involving the King of Bohemia and an American actress. "However, Russell, I think that this is a one-man job. There is no intellectual challenge to it; my opponent will be quickly beaten."

"Hmm." I took a quick gulp of the scalding liquid to hide my doubt. "Very well then. I suppose I'll just go back to the _scintillating_ works of Dalton…"

This at least brought the beginning twitch of a smile to Holmes's mouth. "Rekindling your interest in chemistry, Russell? There is a rather complex experiment which I had been hoping to conduct this afternoon, but I must observe Miss Adler today. Perhaps you could carry on in my absence."

My heart sank at the idea of carrying out such a promising activity in solitude. "You wouldn't rather wait until we can do it together? What if I confuse my variables and compromise your results?"

Now he was smiling softly. "I am entirely confident in your capability, Russell."

An unexpected glow warmed my chest, creeping up my neck in the form of a flush. Holmes's compliments always caught me by surprise with their simplicity and honesty.

Suddenly, for the second time in twelve hours, heavy steps thumped towards the door, which swung open urgently. Detective Inspector Lestrade, a man with whom I had a delicate and mistrustful (more on his side than mine) relationship, stood in the opening, breathing heavily.

Holmes was on his feet in an instant with no sign of the hot drink he had been cradling mere seconds previously. "Well man, what is it?"

"You asked me to keep a look out for that Sidney fellow you claim had something to do with Miss Russell's trouble," Lestrade began, and while I could feel Holmes bristling at the DI's intentionally irksome word choice, he didn't interrupt. "Well, he's turned up."

Holmes made an impatient gesture that might have been funny under less-urgent circumstances. "And?"

"He's dead."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** I was going to try and do two chapters this weekend, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen. Thank you again SO MUCH to those of you who have been reviewing, it really does make my day. Enjoy this chunk of words- it actually has some relevant plot stuff! Also Holmes and Russell apologizing to each other and Lestrade being sassy. Oh Lestrade...

This one also gets a little gory. Please use good judgment.

* * *

**Chapter XII**

Holmes rocked back onto his heels, a fraction of the tension leaving his body. "What do you mean dead?"

Lestrade huffed. "By 'dead' I mean that he has no heartbeat, he's not breathing, he's lost a lot of blood-"

"Lestrade!" Holmes shouted, and I jumped. I think that we were both of us shocked by the news but I was just trying to reconcile the fact of Sidney's death, whereas Holmes was determined to leap into action.

"What happened, Inspector?" I asked in a more reasonable tone before Holmes could act rashly. "I take it by your allusion to blood loss that this was no natural death?"

The detective grimaced. "Far from it." Suddenly remembering to whom he was speaking, he coughed and his eyes darted over to Holmes. "In fact, the details of the case are rather… disturbing. Perhaps Miss Russell would prefer to leave the room while we discuss it?"

Apparently Holmes only absorbed a few words of the discussion because he darted to the stand by the door, shrugging on his coat and selecting a hat. "I think that observing would really be better than discussing. After you, Lestrade." And with that, he shooed the other man out the door ahead of him.

I hovered indecisively for a minute, still holding my cooling coffee, until Holmes stuck his head back around the frame, clearly confused. "Come along Russell. Have you misplaced your coat?"

Thankful to have had the decision taken out of my hands, I slipped a coat over the pale green dress I was wearing (one of the more practical ones, thank God) and followed with all speed.

* * *

Since I had seen Sidney and discovered that he was responsible for my captivity, I had harbored no great feelings for the man, but I was not prepared for the carnage of the crime scene.

The body had been shoved partway underneath a derelict and abandoned cart several blocks north of the Tower of London. _I would not have liked to be the one to have found this,_ I thought weakly when the great spread of crimson came into view. A sheet was halfheartedly covering what parts of the body it could, but the killer had done an impressive job mangling and spreading the remains.

Here, with the buildings so close together, the light of the morning had not yet penetrated the dense brown fog. Holmes's dark coat soon became lost in the jumble of policemen and I was stranded with only my thoughts and the sound of his voice.

"Time of death?"

Lestrade, who had suddenly appeared in the fog to my right, was the one to answer. "Just after midnight, our man thinks."

This jolted me away from the part of me that was appalled by the gruesome murder and back to my logical self. "Holmes?"

"Yes, Russell." A brief breeze made him visible to me, crouched beside the cart with the body. He glanced up, then back at me. "What are you doing over there? Surely your spectacles don't provide you with such astounding vision. Come tell me what you think of this."

I ignored Lestrade's mumbled protests and stepped out into the open area around the body, wishing that I was wearing my male clothing rather than a limiting dress. Still, I picked my way over the blood drying in between the cobblestones with skirts held high and bit back the nausea. "Shouldn't Watson be here?"

"Why," Holmes asked sharply, "would you have preferred to stay at home drinking your coffee?" Despite his original sarcasm, as he lifted blood-stained hands from his examination of a solitary ear, he finally seemed to remember that I was not a hardened investigator. "My apologies, Russell," he said for the second time in an hour. "You are of course not expected to remain if the scene makes you uncomfortable."

I scowled and felt heat radiating from my ears at snickers from the officers who still circled us. I matched his original tone. "I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that my sensibilities are in no way offended by the sight of a scoundrel such as this who has been brought to justice, albeit by violent ends." Even as I spoke, the echoes of my friendship with the elderly bookseller brought a sour taste to my mouth. "I only thought that the good doctor's medical expertise might have been a worthwhile asset. But I defer to your good judgment."

Holmes looked taken aback, and in fact did not speak for several seconds. When he finally did, however, his tone was neither biting nor coddling; he was speaking only to a partner.

"I think not at this stage. It is fairly obvious that these wounds have been inflicted by a knife, similar in dimensions to the ones used in butchers' shops. What is more intriguing at this stage is how the body came to be in this position." He paused so that I might step closer and view his illustrating gestures. "It looks as though the body has been left in the position in which it fell. The coroner's report, I'm sure, will determine whether the mutilations were performed before or after death, which will aid in the resolution of this question."

I shuddered at the thought of such horrible torture being inflicted on any living person, but obediently bent to inspect the body. "Purely based on the amount of blood present, I would have to agree that the mutilations were performed here, and very soon after death if that was in fact when they took place. Your deductions about the weapon are perfectly sound," I said unnecessarily, "though I would add that the killer, assuming that it was the same person, was unusually enthusiastic."

"That would certainly be one way to describe it," Holmes said grimly.

Suddenly, I noticed the corner of a piece of paper protruding from a front pocket of Sidney's coat. I barely glanced at Lestrade as I slid my sleeve down over my hand to eliminate finger prints and clasped the corner, doing my best to disturb the scene as little as possible. Holmes leant over my shoulder to inspect it with me. Absorbed as I was, I was still acutely aware of his proximity.

It was a once-folded piece of paper, only faintly speckled with scarlet. On the front, in a vaguely-familiar, loopy script, were written the words _Miss Russell_. My hands barely shook as I unfolded it.

_Miss Russell_, the writing repeated:

_It pains me to think that I might die with you still thinking that I was responsible for the horrible things which were done to you in January of this year. When I remember how trusting you were of me and how much time you spent in my shop, and what excellent taste you had in literature, the thought of what happened sickens me._

"I would hope so," Holmes muttered as we both reached the end of the first paragraph. The acid in his voice was almost startling, but I had to put his odd behavior to the back of my mind.

_I know now that there will be no end to my manipulation. I will never escape the snare so masterfully set for me. I must shoulder much of the blame for your trials, Miss Russell, but please understand that it was entirely against my will. I wish you to know this before I succumb to the one torturing me._

_For you to understand this, I must share with you a part of my life which I had thought long passed. As I revealed to you when I visited you during your captivity, I am not from London. In fact, I am from the southern part of the United States. The particular place is of no relevance._

_A great many years ago I was a moderately successful plantation owner. I had a beautiful wife by the name of Anabelle and a few slaves to assist me with the crops. I was happy._

_When unrest between the North and the South began in earnest, I recognized that great changes were coming, and none of them would help me. I am not proud of the fact that I owned slaves, but I did free them before fleeing to England with Anabelle, who was with child, and our two-year-old daughter Sally. We watched from overseas as our beloved country became embroiled in a violent and destructive war, and I felt myself to be a coward for escaping rather than fighting._

_Regardless, we settled down in London and Anabelle and I worked together to create the shop. It was as much our child as Sally and her new brother, Thomas. Then I had to take a week-long trip to Dublin for business reasons. I left Anabelle and the children at our flat._

_When I returned home, expecting to be greeted by my family, I instead discovered a murder investigation. On August 4__th__ 1869, someone had crept into my home and slit the throats of my wife and children._

_I was a broken man after that. It took me many years before I would speak more than two words together. My grief eventually convinced the police that I could not have been the culprit, but there were always those who suspected me. To this day the murderer remains unknown._

_Three and a half years ago, when you had just begun to frequent my shop, I was approached by a reptile of a man. He only named himself as James but he knew impossible things about me and my family. He produced a letter which seemed to be in my own handwriting and which confessed to the murder of my wife and children. If I did not help him, he said, he would kill me and leave the note so that it would appear to have been suicide._

_Would you have done any different in my situation, Miss Russell? I suppose you would have. You and Mr. Holmes would have discovered some way to turn and attack your blackmailer. I envy you._

_My employer, so to speak, had discovered you. I do not know how, but he realized immediately how well you and Mr. Holmes would get on. This Mr. James has some great grudge against Mr. Holmes, and he wanted to use you against him. I will not say how I managed to secure your position at Baker Street, for doing so would put others in danger, but it was planned carefully and executed flawlessly. I was to monitor you and, eventually, plant the idea of falling for Mr. Holmes into your mind._

I shuddered as I remembered the seemingly-teasing words."I just want to make sure that a pretty young lady like you doesn't feel uncomfortable. He's quite the dashing young man, isn't he?" All of the sympathy for Sidney which had been accumulating in the recesses of my mind was lost in the dash of cold anger which followed.

_Rather than become his weakness as James had hoped, you two became fast friends. Holmes seemed to work even more efficiently than before with you at his side. I had no idea that the plan was to kidnap you to test his scheme, and, had I know, I would have accepted my inglorious death rather than put you in the way of such harm._

_The last two months have been spent hiding from the police and from Mr. James, but as I write this I know that my discovery is close at hand. I wish only to give you as much information as I can so that you may be better prepared to face this insidious threat, and to apologize from the depths of my soul both to you and to Mr. Holmes. If the two of you can come through this, with lives and friendship intact, then perhaps I have done some penance for all of my wrongs against you._

_Beware the Ides of March, Miss Russell._

_Albert Sidney_

I rocked back on my heels, stunned by the sheer quantity of information which had just completely changed the direction of the case. However I had very little time to contemplate it, and Sidney's curious choice of quotation, before the paper was snatched out of my hands.

"I can't have you removing evidence from the scene of the crime, Miss Russell," Lestrade said superiorly. "Scotland Yard is hot on the tail of this murderer. We think that we may have a few very important leads."

I nodded blankly, trusting that Holmes, who had stood beside me and was helping to pull me to my feet, would make the necessary inquiries. Fiery tears were threatening to spill from the corners of my eyes and my throat had constricted so that I could not speak.

"Go and wait over there, Russell," Holmes's voice said gently as I was propelled towards a wall. "We will return to Baker Street in a few minutes." I nodded again and leaned heavily against a brick building. The metallic scent of blood filled my nostrils and suddenly taking deep breaths wasn't enough. Water slid down my face in great round drops and my hands shook uncontrollably. The tremors spread through me until I could barely support myself, and I slumped lower and lower.

My impressions of Sidney had been correct. He was a lonely old man who never wanted to harm anyone. He had not been directly involved in my kidnapping… and now here he was, brutally murdered as his recompense for the killing of his family. And yet, and yet…

"Russell!" Holmes cried as my knees thudded to the cobblestone. My vision was too blurred with tears to see clearly but a pair of strong hands grasped my shoulders, pulling me back upright. "My dear Russell, there is a cab just here. Come along… yes, that's it, this way." The silent, fuzzy shapes of the policemen parted as I was led towards a hansom. It occurred to me through the haze of confusion and anger and grief that Holmes probably had to deal with very few crying women in his career. His kindness touched me.

Soon we were enveloped in the blackness of the cab. Holmes settled in the opposite corner, watching me.

"I'm sorry Holmes," I began several minutes later when I incorrectly guessed that I could speak without my voice breaking. "I don't know what came over me."

A surprisingly gruff voice answered. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Russell. When Lestrade told me that the scene was disturbing, I should have listened. I keep forgetting that you and Sidney used to be friends."

With some balance between us restored, at least, we rode in silence back to Baker Street.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** For anyone interested, the closest thing I've found to how I imagine Holmes and Russell's waltz is the YouTube video titled "Appassionata - Slow Waltz". It's lovely! :-D Thanks for reviewing and sorry for being terrible at time management.

Also, there's a bit of a hint in this chapter. See if you can pick it up.

* * *

**Chapter XIII**

I very nearly slept at my aunt's flat that night, simply to get away from it all, but then I started turning the security of the place over in my mind. If I were to stay there, I realized, I would be up the entire night jumping at shadows outside the window. At least knowing that Holmes was nearby would offer me some sense of security.

By the time we arrived back at Baker Street I had composed myself somewhat. I dragged a hand across my eyes to dislodge the last few droplets from my lashes and gave a great sniff before dismounting the hansom and trudging back inside.

Holmes followed unnecessarily close behind me as I made my way upstairs. Unfortunately for him I was more than a little fed up with his mercurial protectiveness and I escaped rather brusquely into my closet, shutting the door behind me.

The footsteps paused, as though Holmes was considering his words, but in the end he wisely passed on without speaking.

I fumbled around in the dark in a few minutes before I located a candle and match, and when I did the wavering yellow light seemed unsettlingly thin. It jumped and danced over the stacks of books which still lined the walls. Titles leapt out at me like leering faces._Grimm's Fairy Tales _and _Arabian Nights_ with their familiar stories suddenly seemed dark and twisted. Even the few nonfiction tomes looked ominous. The only book in the room which had not been purchased from Sidney's shop was a manuscript copy of _A Study in Scarlet_ which Watson had awkwardly presented to me a week or so after it made its Christmas debut.

"Beware the Ides of March," I murmured to myself as my eyes lighted on the copy of _Julius Caesar_ which I had clutched so delightedly on the day of my "interview" with Mrs. Hudson. I idly slid it from the pile in a puff of dust. Flipping through the pages I discovered all over again the crumbs from the biscuit Mrs. Hudson had given me one morning I had missed breakfast and the circular stain where I had absentmindedly left a teacup. Scrawled annotations and illegible symbols occasionally filled the margins to bursting, but they were all of them mine.

Just as I was sighing at my own naivety and preparing to replace the volume, the cover flapped purposefully open into my lap, revealing a loopy scrawl that was not my own. My heart stuttered as I realized that it matched the note which I had discovered on Sidney's body. The name was too smudged to read, but there was an address:

_1642 Charing Cross Road_

I had opened my mouth to call excitedly to Holmes before a thought struck me. If there was one thing I had learned from my months of therapy after my family's accident, it was that closure was important. What better way to find closure with Sidney than to solve his riddles myself?

Besides, the clue was clearly meant for me. Only I would know that he had quoted the same line as he originally handed me the book, and only I would immediately realize that the answer would lie in another book shop. I could not believe that this was another, infinitely more complex trap set for me by this Mr. James when the first one had worked so well.

There was so much information Holmes and I still needed to progress with the case: this man's appearance and mannerisms would be a good start, plus all of the information about Sidney's past which he had apparently deemed irrelevant. Sidney was not a stupid man. He knew that there was a good chance that the note would be read before it reached me, and that including too much information would only result in its confiscation, so he must have hidden it somewhere.

New confidence shooting through me with the chance to make headway on the case, I straightened my dress and brushed out my hair so that it was presentable by society's standars. I debated for a long time about taking some sort of weapon but eventually decided that Charing Cross was a suitably busy place. I would stay on the main streets and, if it became necessary, return to Baker Street and recruit the help of Watson and his military pistol.

As I ducked out onto the landing, temporarily blinded by the scarf I was tossing about my slim shoulders, I nearly knocked into Holmes, who was ascending the stairs with a full tea tray.

"Apologies Holmes," I threw behind me as I stumbled downwards, barely registering that there were two cups and saucers. "I'm going out for a while to clear my head. Best of luck on the Adler case!" _That's odd,_ I thought, _I've never known him to make tea for Watson before._

After a pause, during which I had made it all the way to the front door, Holmes called after me. "I know I needn't remind you of the dangers to you at the moment. While I am engaged on this case I hope you feel that you may ask Watson for any assistance which you may require."

I nodded up at him. "Thank you, Holmes. And I really do wish you luck."

He pulled a sour face. "I despise luck, as you very well know, Russell. But I appreciate the sentiment."

_And there's a sentence I never thought to hear out of his mouth. _I didn't spare myself the time to analyze his words, however, for I was anxious to be on my way.

Charing Cross Road, as many of my readers will know, is famous for its secondhand book stores. It was a favorite haunt of mine before I discovered Sidney's and still held a place in my heart as a congregating place of the literary-minded.

The address Sidney had given me, 1642, was another book shop as I had predicted. It was newer than Sidney's and its wares seemed to be in better condition. A cheerful bell jingled above the door as I stepped inside.

"Hello Miss," a plump middle-aged woman behind the counter greeted me.

"Good afternoon ma'am." I glanced around the shop and saw that, despite its apparent orderliness, I could identify no pattern to the way the books were arranged. "I wonder if you might help me find a copy of _Julius Caesar_?"

She gave me a surprisingly guarded look. "Would you prefer a new or used copy, Miss?"

I thought for a moment. If I expected it to be any help to me whatsoever in terms of clues, it must surely be a used copy, yet there didn't seem to be a single imperfect tome in the place. "Used," I said cautiously, trailing it off into a slight question without intending to.

Her face went blank and she drew a copy with warped covers up from underneath the counter. That was certainly promising. "And what will the second book be, Miss Russell?"

I started. It was obvious now that I was navigating a set of obstacles set by Sidney to ensure that whatever information he had hidden was not accidentally purchased by a customer on a budget. But a second book? I strained my memory and tried to picture that day. "Beware the Ides of March!" Sidney had exclaimed, but only after suggesting something else…

The words came to me like a shot of electricity. I licked my lips and twitched my fingers but tried desperately to be casual. "A little Virgil would be lovely, I think."

Suddenly the woman's gently-creased face broke into a smile. "Mr. Sidney is a friend of mine. I understand that you may be able to help him clear his name?"

I halted with my hand outstretched to receive the book. "I'm sorry, Ms…?

"Mrs. Poppy," she responded, smile beginning to falter. "Why do you apologize?"

"Mr. Sidney died early this morning," I said in a low voice, the words automatically conjuring an image of the dreadful scene. "He defied the man blackmailing him and was murdered near Whitechapel. I'm sorry," I added again as she turned white and staggered backwards to fall onto a chair.

After several moments of strained silence, Mrs. Poppy spoke. "The situation is clearly much more serious than I believed from my conversation with Sidney. It is possible that it has escalated in the intervening months." She looked up at me, her mouth forming a hard line. "I think perhaps you should leave."

And so I took my leave with neither argument nor farewell.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** SORRY! Things have been crazy, etc. etc. But I'm halfway through the next chapter already, so maybe another update tomorrow or Wednesday?

* * *

**Chapter XIV**

It was still early afternoon when I returned to Baker Street, book clutched uneasily in my hands, and Holmes was absent. I deduced that he was investigating Irene Adler. After all, whatever catastrophes plague us, the rent must be paid and reputations must be maintained. I indulged in a bitter sigh before I remembered that the entire point of investigating alone was, in fact, to be alone.

Watson sat reading in the parlor. I was loathe to reveal my task to him, yet the idea of spending another afternoon ensconced in my closet with only the light of a candle suddenly seemed claustrophobic. I casually wandered in and set the book and a few sheets of paper on the desk beneath the window.

Watson looked up. "Ah, Mary! Holmes tells me you had a bit of a frightening experience this morning."

_Damn him._ "I wouldn't say frightening, but the murder scene was quite… disturbing. I was merely taken aback by the killer's enthusiasm."

The man nodded sympathetically. "I certainly understand that! One never knows what one will see when investigating with Holmes. I've seen my share of brutality."

I gestured to the desk. "Do you mind if I join you? I think some analysis is the best thing for me to occupy myself."

"Of course! Go right ahead."

I settled into the chair and selected a pen from the eclectic collection spread across the desk. I neatly aligned my papers and expectantly cracked open the cover of the book.

If I had been expecting a neat encrypted list on the title page, I was sorely disappointed. The first ten pages were completely blank. On page eleven, faintly scribbled in pencil, was _Ujhangqe AB_.

I scowled at the paper, my mind racing. It was no language that I recognized, though it was possible that it was indeed a language. It seemed more likely that it was some kind of code.

Flipping through the book, I discovered and meticulously copied out the rest of the mysterious phrases:

_Ujhangqe, AB_

_Mbrnt av ufzm rqe ltvgw, xnmiy jsjr itls, f apgnfi gpkg._

_Sstyfkvpw_

None of them meant anything to me. The lack of repeated letters suggested that it was more than a simple replacement code. There was probably a key word that would allow me to solve the cipher.

Just as I was digging in to start testing words, the door downstairs opened and heavy boots began thumping inside. I jumped to my feet, suddenly panicked for some inexplicable reason. I didn't want Holmes to know that I was working on the case without him. I didn't want to confront my earlier weakness. I wanted to continue to make my own progress. Whatever it was, I swept up the book and papers and a couple of pens and walked briskly out of the room and down to my closet, much to Watson's surprise.

I slipped into the isolated space just as Holmes passed me going up the stairs and shut the door to cut off any greeting. I stumbled around looking for a candle, thinking that I really needed to keep them closer to the door, and eventually fell onto my mattress with a sigh.

Mechanically, as I had done with so many projects in the past, I opened the book and began thumbing slowly through the pages, looking for annotations. Perhaps I had missed something. I tried not to eavesdrop on Holmes's conversation with Watson, but eventually the half-heard words began to drive me crazy. Using only the point of my toe, so as to convince myself that the action might be accidental, I eased the door open a crack.

"My dear Watson, she has the voice of an angel."

My leg twitched in surprise and the door shut with an audible snap. What on earth? Holmes actually complimenting a woman? This Irene Adler must truly be something extraordinary.

Scowling for some reason I couldn't quite explain, I set about decoding the writing.

* * *

A day passed, and another. I was absolutely obsessed with solving Sidney's puzzle, and with doing it myself. Most of my hours were spend locked in my closet going through candle after candle and endless cups of coffee. I could feel the color leaching from my skin and my hair snarling and sticking to my neck with the effort of the thought. When the headache got too bad, I would make a sandwich in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and sleep for a few hours until I had the physical capability to sit back up and keep trying.

_Ujhangqe AB_ suggested a city and the abbreviation for a state. I obtained a map of the South the first evening and pored over it, compiling a list of eight-letter cities. This produced dozens of possibilities, so I alternated between that option and other strategies of decoding. When I grew exhausted from staring at the same series of letters for so long, I tried to find some order in the longer sentences. The obvious solution would be to replace the most common letter with e, but this yielded no results.

Finally, the second evening (or perhaps early morning), I tried Richmond, VA in the place of the first set of letters. It was the last in a sub-category which I had organized through a complex algorithm of alphabetical order and city population.

I actually dropped my pen when I realized that the differences in letters caused a repeating pattern of numbers: 3, 1, 5, 19, 1, 18, 3, 1, 5, 19. I scribbled out the alphabet at the top of the paper to avoid errors of exhaustion and translated the numbers to letters: Caesarca ES. It was a repetition of the word "Caesar." That was the key.

With a burst of renewed purpose, I used the repeated slip cipher to translate the rest of the words:

_Richmond VA_

_James is tall and gaunt, with grey hair, a hooked nose._

_Professor._

That was plenty enough information to get a real investigation going. I would talk to Holmes at dawn and we could decide how much to give to Scotland Yard and what to pursue ourselves. I heard the clock downstairs chime and decided that it would be better to sleep then while I could.

Without bothering to undress or do anything besides blow out the candle, I collapsed over onto the mattress and slept.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note:** Had the day off, decided to do something semi-productive. Enjoy! Please review! Stay awesome! Freak out over the _Doctor Who_ finale! Augh!

And happy Veterans' Day. :-D

* * *

**Chapter XV**

Just after dawn the next morning I strode into 221B's sitting room, crumpled pages of decoding attempts clutched in my hand. I had slept for no more than a handful of hours but my victory had renewed me.

Holmes sat reading the newspaper at the breakfast table, and, unusually, Watson accompanied him. He glanced up as I came in but raised an eyebrow when his eyes lighted on my face. "Why Russell, what carriage driver had the misfortune to incur your wrath by running you over?"

I had no time for his playful insults, though I surprised even myself when I glanced in the mirror above the mantle. My frizzy hair was barely contained in a bun; the circles under my eyes resembled bruises from a fight more than anything else. With my pallor and sunken cheeks I bore an eerie similarity to a skull. I smiled in a way which I knew would bare my teeth and keep my eyes shining coldly. "Indeed, Holmes, the fellow who inflicts such a battering on you during your cases seems to have hunted me down as well. I shall have words with him. Rather like looking in a mirror, isn't it?"

Not even a twitch of his lips for my effort. Ah, well. "What do you think of this cipher?" I handed him the page which contained only the original words from the book.

He scanned it cursorily. "I would say that it is a slip cipher of the sort which requires a key word. Its context might reveal potential matches. But why are you asking me when you've already solved it?" I was ready to roll my eyes and move on to my big reveal, but Watson widened his eyes and dropped his jaw in that way that Holmes's inflated ego can never resist. He leaned across the table as though to speak confidentially to his friend while I waited, impatient. "Her fingers are shaking from coffee consumption, you see, and her general appearance suggests intense absorption with some problem or other. The fact that she only now brings it to me after being so determined to solve it herself reveals that either she has reached a dead end, which, considering Russell's intelligence, I find difficult to believe, or that she wishes to gloat after completing the puzzle."

I handed over the results, barely registering the hidden compliment. "We now know Sidney's home town, a physical description of James, and his profession." As he read quickly through the phrases, his eyes widened. This was more surprise than I had been expecting. "Holmes?"

"Say that again." Barely more than a whisper between his pale lips. A few drops of rain splattered against the window in the silence.

I repeated myself slowly and deliberately, trying to catch whatever he had caught. "We now know Sidney's home town, a physical description of James-" here I was halted by a raised hand. "Of James…" I trailed off again, realization dawning on me.

Holmes and I made a leap for his self-compiled encyclopedias at the same time. I reached them sooner as he first had to clear the obstacle of the table and flipped quickly to the appropriate page. A few newspaper clippings related to unsolved crimes, and a sketch of a professor with grey hair and a hooked nose.

"Surely not?" Now it was my turn to whisper. "Why would he only give Sidney his first name?"

"To play with us," Holmes muttered. "He's been toying with us this entire time, using you to get to me. Even the letter might have been a ploy."

He tossed the book abruptly onto the table, where Watson leaned over interestedly to read, and grabbed my shoulders. "Russell, this is very important. Where did you get this cipher?"

I shrugged his hands off. "1642 Charing Cross Road. The line at the end of Sidney's letter was the same one he quoted when he first sold me a copy of _Julius Caesar_, the day before I began work at Baker Street. I found that book, which contained the address, and there I met a Mrs. Poppy who claimed to have been Sidney's friend. I jumped through a series of hoops to obtain another copy of the book, which contained the encrypted words. You're right, I wanted to figure it out myself."

Watson finally caught up and stood, knocking over his cup of tea. "You mean that Moriarty was behind Miss Russell's kidnapping?"

"Or someone wants us to think he is," Holmes said darkly, darting to the door to snatch his coat. He tossed another at Watson and one at me, apparently not realizing that it was another of his, and prepared to leave.

"Holmes," I said softly, stopping him in his tracks. "I've had six hours of sleep in the last three days. You yourself have just finished a case. Frankly, I'd like a bath and a proper meal before we run off somewhere. Moriarty isn't going to make a move in the next two hours."

I received a cold glare in return. "No, but this might be over in the next two hours-"

"Holmes!" This time he was clearly listening. "You can't just go kill Moriarty, or whatever it is you're planning to do." I threw the coat back to him. "I'm going to go eat. You and Watson can do whatever research ritual it is that you do. Yes," I said, anticipating his question, "I'll give you both books. We can discuss when I get back." And with that I left the two men staring at each other.

* * *

When I returned to the sitting room, refreshed and ready for investigation in the outfit Ronnie had given me, I was surprised to see Holmes sitting and smoking in his chair by the fire. Watson sat at the desk, scribbling furiously.

"So what's the plan?" I asked, a little confused by the overall lack of action.

"I want to get this Irene Adler case down as soon as possible, while it's fresh in my mind!" Watson explained without looking up. Holmes didn't break his staring contest with the flames.

I walked over to read the first few lines over his shoulder. "'To Sherlock Holmes she is always _the_ woman,'" I said in a voice so dramatic as to be sarcastic. "'I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex.'" Here I paused to affect an expression of mock-indignation. "I beg your pardon, Uncle John! 'It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler,'" I continued, waggling my eyebrows. "'All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind.'" Here I burst into laughter.

"Dear God Watson!" Holmes explained, finally twisting around to glare coldly at us. "I shudder to think what you've done to the rest of the case if that is how you begin! And a shame, too," he said thoughtfully, his speaking becoming slightly distorted as he replaced the pipe in his mouth, "for it was indeed an interesting one."

Watson spluttered. "I hardly think it is your place to criticize my embellishments of your stories, Holmes, when it is this pen which contributes so heavily to the rent!"

"Don't worry, Uncle John, it is only that his 'cold, precise but admirably balanced mind' cannot comprehend the beauty of your prose." I patted his shoulder as he grumbled under his breath. Perching myself in the chair opposite Holmes, not even my dear friend's disapproval could keep me from laughing. "I look forward to reading this one! Whatever this Miss Adler did to eclipse _me_ must have been quite impressive."

"Really, Russell," Holmes reprimanded, "I think that the situation calls for a slightly more serious response."

"Indeed," I lamented, "for Irene Adler has claimed your heart."

"_Russell._"

"Oh all right."

The scratching of Watson's pen filled the few moments of silence which Holmes spent staring at me, though even I could not identify the emotion behind the gaze. Anger? Or perhaps just thoughtfulness?

"If you're quite willing, perhaps you could review what we know of the case so far."

I took a deep breath. "Sidney was being blackmailed by Professor Moriarty-"

"_Everything_, if you please, Russell."

"Very well, Mr. Holmes," I said airily and settled myself comfortably into my chair. "This is what we know:

"Sidney was a slave owner in or near Richmond, Virginia. When it became clear that Civil War was inevitable, he, his pregnant wife, and their daughter relocated to London, where they opened a bookstore. Some time afterwards someone killed Sidney's wife and children while he was in Dublin. After overcoming his depression, he threw himself into the running of the store.

"Two months before my employment at Baker Street began, which would have been January of 1885, Sidney was approached by Professor Moriarty, who gave his name only as James- at least, according to the letter found on Sidney's body which was supposedly written by him. This man threatened to release a letter in Sidney's handwriting which would confess to the murder of his family. In order to avoid this fate, Sidney had to engineer it for me to come work for Mrs. Hudson.

"When this succeeded, he continued to monitor my progress." I briefly debated revealing that he had planted the idea of falling in love with my mentor, but decided that Holmes had already reached that conclusion. "Eventually, Moriarty organized my kidnapping. Sidney disagreed with this and went on the run, until he returned to London and was brutally murdered."

"We presume," Holmes continued smoothly when I stopped for breath, "that this was done by one of Moriarty's henchmen. You also neglected to mention the fact that someone went to the bother of carving a fairly arbitrary- though disturbing, admittedly- message into your back. And there were multiple guards, both male and female, outside your cell. That could very well be important."

"There are any number of small things that could be important, Holmes!" I sighed. "So where do we begin?"

"If you'll permit me now, Russell," Holmes said drily, "I thought we could pay the man himself a visit. That might offer some answer."

My throat went dry even as I automatically followed his lead and stood. "You mean…"

"Yes Russell! We must speak with Moriarty! He hardly keeps his location secret, after all."

Watson finally looked away from his writing. "Are you really sure that's wise, Holmes?"

A raised eyebrow was his only response as the detective strode out and down the stairs.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** Sorry guys! Life happens but I can't believe it's been a month since I posted. Hopefully with some time off in the near future I'll be able to get a few more chapters up before the new year. Also, there may or may not be a special oneshot for Christmas/New Years.

Let me know in the reviews what you think of Holmes and Moriarty's interactions. I'm going to try a kind of frenemy thing and see if that works.

* * *

**Chapter XVII**

It would have been a short ride on the Metropolitan line from Baker Street to Euston Square, but Holmes, as usual, insisted on taking a cab. I never quite understood from where he obtained his constant flow of funds, since many of his cases were taken either without charge or at a greatly reduced fare due to the situation of his clients. I suppose that that was very telling as to the stature of the remainder of the people who sought his services.

I entered the cab first and Watson immediately followed to sit across from me. Holmes stepped up and made as though he was going to sit at my side, but at the last second swiveled and fell back next to Watson. The doctor struck the roof of the cab with his cane as Holmes immediately turned his gaze to the window.

Twisting my hands in my lap, I wondered if I shouldn't have worn a dress and gloves. There was a time when my male guise had always been more convenient, but I could see now that I would have to learn to be more discerning. Surely a disheveled youth trailing two well-dressed men into the University of London would be slightly out of place?

My right thumb found the jagged scar on my left palm and traced it absently as I fought to keep my restless legs still. _Moriarty_. The very name rang of poison, of deceit and danger. I do not know how prominent a role he had played in the stories which Dr. Watson had published before that point, but he was always lurking in the corners. A mere whispered curse at the end of a difficult case. A shadow of a doubt in an accusation. Professor James Moriarty, brilliant mathematician and diabolical criminal, had never once left even a shred of evidence pointing in his direction, and yet Holmes had traced his network of spies and thieves directly to the mastermind himself.

The two men had had barely a handful of encounters, and of course Holmes could not bring the man to the police. He was much too clever to allow himself even to be suspected—except by one matched in his intellect. It surely tickled Holmes's ego to know that Moriarty had been inconvenienced enough by him to put such effort into removing him from the equation, yet the fact that he had followed the professor's plan for so long without suspicion probably eliminated any sense of flattery.

"Russell," Holmes droned in a low voice over the rattle of the cab, "the tension which you are exuding is quite draining to the atmosphere. If you would be so good as to relax somewhat."

I knew that it was his roundabout, irritating way of trying to reassure me, yet I could not stop myself from rolling my eyes in his direction and shoving myself further into the corner of the cab. "I don't understand, Holmes, why we must go to meet Moriarty on his own ground. Surely it would be better to somehow make him come to us?"

"Whatever hand he had in engineering that puzzle, he must know now that we understand who is behind this plot. He will be expecting us to retaliate in some way, or else to attempt to evade him. Unless you have a better suggestion," he said, sarcasm practically leaking from his eyes, "I propose that we immediately go to him, but not with an attempt to strike. We shall only speak to him and attempt to ascertain the nature of the danger facing us."

_Wouldn't that be nice for a change,_ I thought sourly to myself."I still don't feel that this is our best course of action."

"We have nothing to hold against him besides a vague series of riddles which we might easily have fabricated," Holmes said calmly, though I caught a slight restless flutter of his fingers. "We need more data." In the ensuing silence there was a slight scratching noise, and Holmes searched about the cab to identify its source. I saw it at the same time as he did: Watson had out his little notebook and was scribbling away with a pen. "My dear Watson, perhaps your particular insight would be more helpful at this time than notetaking."

The cool politeness with which he spoke was what convinced me that he was just as nervous as I was. What with Watson's blustering and my passive aggressiveness, there was an uneasy stuffiness which pressed in on our conversation. Clearly none of us was looking forward to facing Moriarty.

* * *

We reached the large lecture hall just as a flood of dark-robed young men streamed out of it, eyes wide with that particular expression which accompanies new and exciting knowledge. They spared barely a glance for the odd trio of men who pushed past in the opposite direction.

Holmes slipped in first, easily navigating the rows of chairs as he darted towards the straight-backed figure facing the blackboard. I strode behind him, not bothering to disguise my gait in any way. Moriarty knew who I was. I could hear Watson behind us, jogging a little to keep up.

"Professor," Holmes said, his voice ringing out clear and sharp in the empty room. "A word, if you please."

The old man turned slowly, placing the cloth which he had been using to wipe the board clean on his desk. I saw his face spasm briefly in some unknown expression before it settled into a superior smirk. "Why Mr. Holmes! I can always spare time for the great detective." He made a grand gesture, inviting us to sit down, but Holmes remained standing, his form vibrating with restless energy. "Are you perhaps here to discuss engineering some scheme to be the focus of your next story? I hear that they are selling rather well."

Holmes bristled beside me and I had to admit that Moriarty knew what he was doing. He had gone straight for a trigger point. I still found it difficult to believe, however, that the pompous elderly professor standing before me was the head of a major network of crime.

"Perhaps some other time." A bitingly dismissive flick of the wrist. "No, I'm afraid that I am here on rather more serious business: a kidnapping case in which you might be interested."

This time Moriarty's expression was clearly one of surprise. "Indeed?" Holmes glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and I knew that he had seen it too. Moriarty genuinely didn't know why we were there.

Emboldened by this realization and, admittedly, intrigued by this mathematical genius, I stepped forward. "You must know who I am, Professor," I said a little too loudly.

The man's dark, sunken eyes flickered over to rest on my face. "Miss Mary Russell. Eighteen years old. Friend and informal apprentice of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, formerly a maid employed by Mrs. Hudson at 221 Baker street. American and Jewish, orphaned four years ago by an automobile accident. Slightly above-average intelligence. Yes, Miss Russell, I know who you are."

Why was I surprised by how much he knew? I associated with Holmes and therefore must have been of great interest to him. "Then you also know why I am here."

He smiled condescendingly. "Miss Russell, I am a professor of mathematics, not a mind-reader. Whatever imagined slight you have concocted, I'm afraid you will have to reveal it to me before I can respond."

I raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps it has slipped your memory, Professor, that you blackmailed an elderly bookseller, engineered a complex plot to secure my employment at Baker Street, and had me abducted. I was wondering if you might care to clarify your motives."

Open amazement crossed his features. "I can assure you that I had nothing to do with that! I heard of your kidnapping, of course. I hear about everything that happens to you, my dear. But the rather bloody disposal of that bookseller was sloppy." He turned from me to address Holmes. "I'm disappointed, Mr. Holmes. Have you not learned my signature yet?"

The open way in which he spoke of the crimes amazed me. It was as though Moriarty had no fear of being overheard, or that he was so confident in the lack of evidence against him that he simply didn't care. I turned to see Holmes's reaction, which was guarded. I thought that I could read disgust, and maybe surprise. "You have no information as to who was behind the attack?"

I looked sharply at Holmes. Was it really wise to be asking a criminal mastermind for any kind of information?

"No, though now that I know these events are connected, several interesting possibilities do appear…"

He trailed off, staring over our heads. Watson shifted his weight and spoke for the first time.

"You mean to say that you did not kidnap Miss Russell? Then why was that puzzle left which led us to believe that it was you?"

I winced internally. Watson was a kindhearted man, but his intuition in situations such as these was sadly lacking. Moriarty swiveled his head towards him, gaze penetrating, as though he were a deadly hound on a scent. All of the cheerful condescension was gone; here was the man who could kill another with a flick of his finger. "What puzzle," he asked in a manner that was more like a command.

Holmes hurried to jump in before the good doctor could reveal anything else. "In the course of my investigation I came across some scribbles in one of Sydney's books. They formed a code describing you as the culprit. Obviously a red herring left for me by the one responsible. Fortunately, it is not our only lead."

I nearly spoke up to correct Holmes and remind him that I had been the one to find the clue before I realized what he was doing. Moriarty knew exactly what Holmes was capable of, but, whatever he had said earlier, I was more of a mystery. The less he knew of my capabilities the better.

A dull fire had sprung up in Moriarty's eyes. "So, there is some petty criminal out there attaching my name to his crimes?" He paused thoughtfully. "I will not impede your investigation, Mr. Holmes. If you were so gullible as to immediately believe that clue and come racing here, you will need all the assistance you can receive." He picked up the cloth and resumed wiping the board, apparently bored with our presence. "But remember that the next time you interrupt my work to accuse me of such frivolities, there will be… consequences."

I rolled my eyes, though admittedly not until after checking for reflective surfaces in which Moriarty could see me. I was hardly impressed with such theatrics after knowing Holmes for as long as I had. Watson, however, seemed to have been suitably frightened by the professor's threats, and began walking slowly backwards out of the hall. After standing and seething for a moment, Holmes spun on his heel to follow him, and I brought up the rear. Just as I was about to exit the room, Moriarty called out to me.

"It is not hard to discern this criminal's motives, Miss Russell. You should be warned that others will probably try the same thing if your partnership with Holmes continues."

I looked back, but he was still facing the blackboard. "I will be sure to keep that in mind, professor. Good afternoon."


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: **My little Christmas oneshot for this story, called "Mary Christmas," is now up! "Christmas?" you may be thinking. "But Russell is Jewish." Exactly! Hilarity ensues. Go check it out.

Again, I'm sorry I can't update as regularly as I would like, but that's the way it is. I really appreciate everyone who favorites, follows and reviews because it does mean a lot to me. Also, this story is running REALLY long (I mean seriously, they haven't even figured out the culprit yet!), so thanks to everyone for sticking with it. I love writing this story and Russell is an amazing character to borrow.

That being said, I'm a teensy bit mean to her in this chapter. Sorry. I actually didn't know *this* was going to happen but this girl's got a mind of her own. XP Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter XVII**

"Could he have been bluffing?" Holmes immediately asked as we all settled back into a new cab.

I raised my eyebrows. "The great detective is asking me?" He only crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back. "Very well then. I don't think that he was. He seemed to express genuine surprise when we accused him of my kidnapping, and I have to agree that Sidney's murder was somewhat messy, considering how careful Moriarty usually is."

"I agree," Holmes murmured to himself. I waited for him to continue but he appeared content to observe me and wait for me to speak.

"Well, if that was a dead end, what can we do now? We have no idea who killed Sidney or who kidnapped me, or whether he was telling the truth at all in his note or even if it was really written by him. We thought the book was pointing us towards Moriarty, but it didn't explicitly say that it was him. Maybe we jumped to conclusions, but since that clue seems so unreliable, is it even worth tracking down more professors who fit that description?"

"It is always worth it to follow a lead, however small," Holmes drawled. "Watson, will you help Russell to research professors at the universities in and near London?"

"Of course!" the doctor beamed. "I'm happy to help however I can."

"And I suppose that you will be searching for enemies of Moriarty who might have tried to implicate him in Sidney's murder," I guessed.

"Correct."

I wished that there was some bookwork I could do, but I did have to admit that Holmes's superior knowledge on Moriarty would be much more useful. As it was, Watson and I could search for this elusive Mr. James, or "professor."

"Are there any other leads we should be following?"

"Are there?"

I scowled. "You could just answer for once instead of continually testing me." There was no response and I immediately regretted my outburst. Holmes was the most brilliant person I had ever met; he had the right to test me, and I knew very well that it forced me to improve my skills. I sighed. "When the coroner's report is in, we ought to see if the weapon used is suggestive in any way. I don't know what else we can do."

Holmes watched me for a moment before responding. "Let us follow through with these leads. It wouldn't do to spread ourselves too thin." He looked pointedly at me and I realized how pale and tired I must still look, even after some sleep and a bath.

I nodded and set my mind to tabulating a list of probable universities for me and Watson to begin our search.

* * *

We discovered three professors who fit the description in the book, but after discreet interviews and extensive research we eliminated all three as suspects. We decided that the riddle had been a red herring. Holmes and I tried early on to return to Mrs. Poppy's shop, but found it boarded up and abandoned. I gave her description to Lestrade without much hope and we turned in full to Holmes's pursuit of Moriarty's enemies. This list was much longer, though why any of them would also target Holmes so doggedly was unfathomable. Each line of investigation was shorter and more frustrating than the last.

According to the coroner, Holmes's original deductions about the weapon used had been correct. While it was more difficult to tell on the smaller incisions, the larger cuts had been made by a very sharp knife, probably similar to those used in butchers' shops. It seemed unlikely that the murderer, brutal and violent as they had been, had used more than one weapon.

One day in the middle of April I had become agitated from repeating the same lines of reasoning over and over and eliciting the same responses from Holmes each time, so I went out for a walk, despite the fitful weather. When I returned, mind blissfully empty, I decided that I ought to continue fighting through the labyrinth with Holmes while the peaceful mood lasted.

As I ascended the stairs, I heard Holmes's muffled yelling. I jogged up to see what was happening and to intervene, if necessary; I had rarely seen my friend lose his temper, but it was not a pleasant thing, and we had all been rather strained of late. "The law cannot, as you say, touch you," I thought I made out, and then suddenly the door flew open with a mighty bang. "Yet there never was a man who deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders." Hearing this I did not hesitate to run in through the newly opened door, where I was met by a scene which seemed better suited to the stage than the sitting room. Holmes was positively quivering with anger, his whole form inclined towards a clean-shaven man with sharp grey eyes who was sitting in my friend's usual chair and smirking.

"By Jove!" Holmes continued shouting, his face going quite red as he completely failed to acknowledge my entrance, "it is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to-" He took two swift steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it the man's eyes went very wide and he sprang to his feet. I halted my unconscious path to intercept Holmes before he could actually beat the man and watched with mild amusement as he sprinted down the stairs, out the door and down the street as quickly as his legs could carry him.

"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing as he reclaimed his chair. I finally realized that Watson was sitting in his own usual perch, scribbling furiously away and seemingly unaware of the fight which had almost developed in front of his nose, or of the tension still present in the detective. He was no less flushed and his hands gripped the arms of his chair. "That fellow will rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad and ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest."

"Case?" I asked accusingly. When I had left the flat my friend had been thoroughly entrenched in his own thoughts. He had pulled his knees up to his chin and retrieved the tobacco slipper so that he could easily refill his pipe. There had been no mention of a case for weeks.

He waved his hand thoughtlessly. "A case of identity, nothing more."

"But a case nonetheless!" I exploded. "I've been going out of my mind waiting for a distraction and you don't tell me you have a case?"

Holmes leaned forward in his chair, scowling. "You don't need a distraction, you need to continue focusing. Watson and I will not always be able to give our full attention to this case, which is precisely why you must pursue it with all of your capabilities."

"I have other things to do too, Holmes!" I yelled, feeling months of stress suddenly releasing. Hidden pockets of anger and resentment and anxiety bubbled to the surface, where they popped to release poisonous words. "I must study chemistry to meet your satisfaction, and theology to meet mine! I must be a lady and prepare to manage my parents' estate when I come into my own in less than three years' time. In addition to this, apparently I am leading the investigation into my own kidnapping!" Holmes's lips narrowed to a hard line and steel flashed in his eyes but I plunged ahead, too incensed to heed the warnings. "The greatest mind ever to grace the earth sits here and tells me that he cannot give me his full attention. Perhaps he forgets the words carved into my shoulder or the old man lying dead because of this plot against me, against him, against _us_. Perhaps—perhaps-" My eyes met Watson's, wide and frightened and disbelieving as a drop of ink fell slowly to mar a clean page.

"Perhaps you should leave," Holmes hissed through a locked jaw.

I threw up my chin. Years of learned decorum and deference fell away with that one motion and suddenly I was that proud toddler who had stood with her braids flying in the wind. Who was this man to treat me this way? What was I even doing here? If the police could not help me, then I would help myself. "Perhaps I shall."

I spun on my heel and strode, rather than ran, from the room. I stopped at my closet to gather my things, haughtily stuffing stockings and gloves and skirts into any boxes I thought I could take with me. I picked up a stack of books to discover my childhood treasure box, lid slightly ajar. Hanging over the lip was a dirty, frayed white handkerchief bearing a monogrammed _H_.

The sight gave me pause, I must admit. It was a reminder of friendship and protection which had not been offered lightly, and of the many hours which I had spent in Holmes's company. _On the other hand_, I reminded myself, _it is just a handkerchief. A bit of cloth with sentimental value._

I hailed a cab and loaded the hat boxes inside it, trying not to look up at the window behind me. I knew there would be a pale face watching me- or perhaps I hoped. At the last possible second, just as I was lifting my foot to step into the cab, a voice hailed me.

"Russell." I turned and looked up. There he was, expressionless and cold enough to make any of Watson's reader's proud. Our eyes met for a moment and I felt that there should have been something, some lightning realization or at least a cloud of resentment between us. Instead there was just a floppy brown object held aloft. "You forgot your hat."

I caught it as he threw it and held it aloft in a salute. "Good—bye, Holmes."

"Good—bye, Russell."

Then the window closed and I climbed into the hansom, where I immediately burst into tears. I clenched my fists and sobbed as we sped towards the address I had given the cabbie: my aunt's flat. _You've been reliant for too long,_ I told myself. _You must get out and solve this yourself._ I breathed deeply, trying not to question my motives. Grey stone and greyer faces blurred past the window.

That was the day I realized how much Holmes mattered to me. When I had been kidnapped I had dreamed of kissing him, of course, drug-addled and desperate as I was, but this was different. It was more. I wanted him to trust me to handle multiple cases at once or to at least understand why he didn't want my help, not to work behind my back as though my concentration might shatter like an ornamental flower. I wanted to be a partner, not an apprentice. More than anything, I was tired of the puzzles and the danger.

So, rather than saying this, I ran like the confused youth I was. I ignored my aunt's questions and accusations and carried my own boxes up to my cold, empty room. I found a pencil and several sheets of paper, which I pinned to my wall to form a board of sorts, and began writing. Dates, names, and cryptic riddles went up in the correct order and were meticulously tied together. By the time I finished, the sun had been gone for many hours and my eyes were dry and red from holding back tears. I fell into my dusty, stiff bed for a brief sleep before continuing to work.

* * *

Thus the summer bled away, along with my fears of another abduction now that I was more or less on my own. I saw Mrs. Hudson once or twice and I kept up with Watson's publications, but I did not speak to Holmes. I came to regret my angry explosion, but I never regretted leaving. I was past being an assistant and needed to remind myself that I could operate on my own.

I got nowhere we hadn't already been, so eventually I let it go somewhat. I had taken the bait with the puzzle and now I didn't seem able to correct for it. I was sure that my mysterious adversary would make another move soon, so I waited and rested.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: **This chapter includes both violence and flirting. If either of these is offensive to you, please read responsibly. ;-)

Hopefully you guys are able to get the connection here (with Nichols's murder) but if not I'll clarify in the next A/N.

BTW someone commented a few chapters ago that automobiles were not around at this time. I am aware of this. Frankly I couldn't be bothered to come up with another equally-traumatizing backstory for the death of Russell's family. XP It plays a pretty minor role but I'm sorry if that inaccuracy bothers you.

* * *

**Chapter XVIII**

The morning of August thirty-first was no different from any other. I rose before sunrise after a night of fitful sleep interspersed with disturbing dreams of murder and torture. I went through the series of stretches and slow movements which Holmes and I had used to warm up before practicing self-defense skills, then rigorously boxed against the bag of old clothing which hung from my ceiling. After dutifully punching for nearly a quarter of an hour, I increased my arsenal and kicked, dodged, and jabbed until the imaginary enemy would be thoroughly incapacitated.

Once I had worked up a satisfactory sheen of sweat, I poured some water into the basin at the foot of my bed and bathed myself with a cloth; my aunt preferred to monopolize the bath itself. Then I located my glasses and set about the complicated task of braiding my hair for the day. I had extended this usually rushed routine until it ate up nearly an hour of my abundant time. On the one hand, having a pristine appearance seemed to impress those people with whom I spent most of my time those days, and on the other, it was a simple method to stave off boredom. I recited Hebrew verbs while I worked.

When I was dressed and preened I grabbed my book du jour: an in-depth study of a particularly potent hallucinogenic root which grew in some parts of sub-Saharan Africa and which was used as a rite of passage by village elders. I may not have been under Holmes's tutelage any more, but I was still determined to collect any scrap of information which might help me on a future case of my own.

I stole downstairs for breakfast, book tucked under my arm and muttering Latin under my breath now. It was a fine balance between keeping my many languages in adequate practice and irritating my aunt to the point that my life became miserable. Fortunately, she tended to be a late sleeper, so I fixed myself some bread with hard cheese and an apple before she could berate me for something and wrapped it in a bit of old paper. Not for the first time I missed Mrs. Hudson's large, hot breakfasts every Saturday.

Thus prepared with a meal and a book, I struck out on one of the long walks which I used to absorb my lonely Saturday mornings. It was a fair day, with gentle grey clouds gusting quietly across a sapphire sky. I jumped now to French and took it upon myself to use the language to describe everything which I could see in excruciating detail, down to the texture of the cobblestones, and this exercise absorbed my mind for over a mile of eastward walking. My aunt's flat was close to the Oxford Circus station and by this time I was nearing Holborn, so I turned south, thinking that I might delay my return well into the evening if I kept up a steady pace and waited to take the Underground home again.

I ate as I walked towards the river until I passed the Royal Opera House, where I sat several minutes to regain my breath and make headway into my book. I became so immersed that the sun was high in the sky and it was growing warm when I once again headed east along Fleet Street. By the time I passed St. Paul's my fashionable shoes were giving me blisters and I realized that I rarely walked this far, but for some reason my vivid nightmares had given my feet purpose. It was several streets more before I knew where they were headed: the site of Sidney's murder.

There was a man selling toasted chestnuts who had few customers because of the heat. I took pity on his despondent expression and purchased a packet to sustain me on my trek. Crunching on my treat and regretting not bringing some kind of drink, I reasoned that it couldn't be more than four miles. _Out in the countryside this would be a brisk afternoon's walk_, I told myself. _Surely you can manage it in a day with the promise of a return ride on the train._

I had forgotten my watch and didn't bother to tell the time by the sun. My walk slipped into a painful rhythm, one foot in front of the other until the beat jarred up my legs from the punishing cobblestones. _I should have gone to see Ronnie_, I thought crossly after a few more blocks. My mind had been playing strange tricks lately, however, and I decided that confronting my strange urges might be the best way to rid myself of them.

Finally I reached the street near Whitechapel where Sidney had died. The stones were mostly clean after so many months, though a faint rusty stain lingered between them. As I stood, looking down between my feet and reliving the sounds and smells of that day, a haphazard rattling alerted me to a rapidly approaching carriage. I whipped around and barely dodged out of the way as a police carriage raced around the corner and up the street away from the Thames.

Forgetting my sore feet and somewhat curious in spite of myself, I jogged after the carriage. They were certainly in a hurry.

I ran at a steady pace for several more blocks, following the rumble of the heavy carriage wheels. It felt like the skin was being scrubbed from my ankles and I suspected that my shoes had split several seams. My thick skirts were impeding my stride enough that I finally gathered them in my fists, feeling the last remnants of my sanity slipping away as I chased a police carriage through Whitechapel. I realized what I had been trying to fend off with my reading and walks: I was indescribably, incurably bored.

Finally, there was silence ahead, and I rounded a last corner to see a crime scene sectioned off and positively bustling with constables. A large white sheet covered a sprawling form at the side of the road. I darted forward, pushing up my glasses to hide my face in case any of the police recognized me, and wandered past as though I was a casual observer.

"Miss Russell?" someone asked, clearly startled, and I froze. It was the voice of Holmes's acquaintance at Scotland Yard.

I plastered a sweet smile across my face. "Detective Inspector Lestrade! What a pleasure to see you." I gestured to the body as he came to stand next to me. "What happened here?"

"A young prostitute murdered," he said sourly. "Well, butchered, more like."

The word sent a chill down my spine. "Butchered?"

"Gouged, sliced, and ripped," he said, then coughed and flushed as he remembered to whom he was speaking. "Er, rather, I meant… Where is Mr. Holmes?"

I bit back the bile which had risen at the description. It sounded eerily similar to the circumstances of Sidney's death. "He'll be here soon, I'm sure," I said vaguely. It was not technically a lie.

"Ah, Russell," said a familiar high voice just as I finished speaking, and I felt a spark of annoyance at that over-educated accent. I focused on this rather than the swooping sensation in my abdomen as I turned to face my old friend. Regardless of my best efforts, a small, genuine smile tugged at my mouth.

"Hello Holmes." His expression was carefully neutral, but I knew him well enough to catch that twitch in his jaw which meant that he was concealing some expression. Watson stood behind him, shifting his weight back and forth and looking uncomfortable.

"I see that you have heard the news. Lestrade thought this might be the same killer who murdered Sidney, so he called me."

"Actually," I said lightly, "I was just on a walk."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Just on a walk from Oxford Circus to Whitechapel?"

"I always indulge on long walks on Saturdays," I began before I realized just how despicably ladylike that sounded. Suddenly, I was very conscious of my immaculate hair and fashionable skirts. Holmes, however, continued speaking as though we had not gone the entire summer without doing so.

"Well, it makes no difference to me. Come along, Russell: let's see what we can deduce from the body." And just like that I was back in the game. I threw smiles to each constable I passed and murmured dainty excuses as I stepped into the restricted area around the body, my polite identity becoming nothing more than a shell as my mind fired up. Holmes followed close behind.

Crouching next to what looked to be the head, I drew back the sheet and gasped at the sight before me. Bruises covered the woman's right jaw and left cheek, and one eye was partly open and rolled back in terror. Her dirty hair formed a sort of dark corona around her ivory face. Holmes took the fabric from me as I froze and withdrew it from the body with a flourish, revealing deep incisions on both sides of the neck and a jagged gash across her lower abdomen. We both sat back on our heels to take in the gruesome sight.

"We've just had her identified as a woman named Polly Nichols," Lestrade said eventually, startling us both. "We don't have an age but she looks to be in her late twenties or early thirties, and she was at the Lambeth Workhouse."

Holmes pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket and began examining such small details as the woman's fingernails, buttons, and ear lobes. I stood to get a better look at the whole body. The deep slashes certainly reminded me of Sidney's murder, and it appeared at first glance that a similar weapon, if not the same one, had been used.

Just like that day, separated from this one only by a few streets and fewer months, the metallic warmth of blood wrapped itself into my sinuses and around my tongue. The sun was beating down rather intensely now and I had had nothing to drink since before I had left my aunt's flat. The world spun alarmingly around me as the beginnings of panic set in…

I crouched once more and forced myself to focus on the woman's face. Polly Nichols. I had never seen her before, of that I was certain, nor was the name familiar to me. Was it possible that this was simply a coincidence, or was our killer branching out from our case? Or perhaps there was a connection which I had not yet discovered.

"What do you think, Russell?" Holmes murmured under the general bustle around us.

I took a deep breath, determined not to let my anxiety show. "I would say that the weapon might be the same one, or any of infinite similar knives. The style is reminiscent yet less enthusiastic. It might be the same man or it might not, and there is nothing definite to suggest that it is." I examined her for another second. "And I think that she is older than Lestrade claims. See the fine pattern of lines about her eyes, the yellowing of her skin and eyes from consistent and heavy drink?"

He replaced the glass in his breast pocket. "I agree. Until we can get our hands on a copy of the inquest report, I think that there is little to be discovered here." He stood, unfolding his long legs until he towered above me, then offered me his hand. I took it, if a little cautiously, and allowed myself to be pulled to my feet. Watson stood at the edge of the scene, taking notes on all that happened around him. It occurred to me that Holmes had probably asked him to record some of the policemen's idle chatter to be screened later for information.

Holmes pulled a watch from an internal pocked and scrutinized it for a moment. By reading it upside down, I was able to discern that it was already the middle of the afternoon. A wave of hunger and thirst washed over me and I slumped a little.

"Perhaps we ought to take luncheon at a café while we wait for more information," Holmes said casually. The detective noticed everything, as usual, however much he pretended not to. I nodded silently, not trusting my dry throat, and knelt to replace the sheet over the body of Polly Nichols.

* * *

Once I had gulped several cups of tea and Watson had relayed his notes (mostly the men discussing whether or not a certain constable had had an encounter with Nichols in the past), the three of us fell into an awkward silence. Now that we were off of the familiar ground of investigating, I was unsure how to continue.

"Well, Russell, how go the studies which you were so anxious to pursue?" Holmes finally asked.

I picked a little at my cold sandwich, remembering with shame my shouted words the last time we had met. "They go well. I've been focusing on my languages, especially Hebrew, but also French, Latin, Arabic, Spanish…" I trailed off. "And I've been reading an enormous quantity on a variety of subjects."

"Excellent." I glanced up and saw that the sentiment was genuine. Holmes may not have been happy about me going off on my own, but at least he was pleased at what I had accomplished in that time. "I take it that you have not taken on any cases of your own?"

I almost laughed. "No, Holmes, I'm afraid that I carry rather less authority than you do. No one wants to bring their problems to an American girl of eighteen."

"Now, Miss Russell, I'm sure that's not true," Watson interjected, and this time I did smile at his genuine feeling. "If your skills were more well-known, people would be flocking to you!"

I chuckled. "I hardly compare to the competition."

"Obviously," Holmes hummed as he raised his cup to his lips, and I laughed at the undertones of humor. The noise attracted the attention of two middle-aged women who sat at the table next to us. They peered over, their dark, disapproving eyes roving over my young female body and my two companions. One of them had the audacity to tut under her breath as the other's eyes flickered down to my left hand—checking for a ring.

I felt an angry flush creep up my neck. Here was one thing I had not missed from investigations: questioning eyes and sometimes blatant disapproval of my choice of company. I was feeling particularly bold that day, especially after being fortified with food and drink, so I decided to have a little fun.

I picked up the laugh again, this time making it high and delicate as I leaned across the table to rest a hand on Holmes's arm. "Oh Holmes, you are too full of yourself!"

To my gratification, the women's eyes widened to the size of saucers as they openly gaped at my forwardness. To my further gratification, Holmes responded in much the same way. He cleared his throat. "Russell, are you feeling all right? If you walked all the way from your aunt's flat in the heat of the afternoon-"

I leaned back to pluck a bit of ham from my plate and place it delicately between my lips, eyes still watering with laughter at the women's expressions. "I'm fine," I said, and it came out rather like a purr (to no one's astonishment more than mine). Watson harrumphed and hid his face behind his tea as he attempted to slowly but steadily drink the entire cup. Holmes, on the other hand, was watching me closely. I could see the gears turning: was I playing some kind of game, or delusional from the heat and the earlier trauma of seeing Nichols's body? I knew that the thought would never cross his mind that I was honestly acting this way. Even after a summer spent apart, the very idea of such a change in character would be abhorrent to him.

Suddenly tired of my game and wanting to reassure Holmes of my sanity, I looked pointedly towards the women before winking. I watched as he checked their reflection in the teapot, furrowed his brow—and then smiled widely. "Russell, you are an incurable tease." He leaned forward in much the same way I had a moment previously. "One would almost think that you had avoided me the whole summer on purpose!"

I sat up sharply, my grin at his reciprocation of this game sliding as I realized that he actually wanted to have this discussion now. After a moment of thought, I painted on a face appropriate to my character, allowing myself to be convinced that my flush was pretty and girlish and not blotchy. "Oh Holmes, you know I could never avoid you!" A coy smile. The two women next to us were deep in their own conversation now, clearly trying to block us out, but we continued our little dance. "You know how silly and jealous I can be sometimes. It was very rude of me to be angry with you when I came back and saw your guest." I pouted. Watson choked on his tea.

"I think that can be forgiven, my dear," he said softly.

I beamed a genuine smile. I didn't care if it meant interviewing elderly professors every day of the week; my mind was rotting away with inactivity and I wanted to return to my old life. "That's very sweet of you, Holmes," I said after a brief silence.

He made a face. "It can be forgiven if you never refer to me as 'sweet' again."

"It's a deal." The rest of the meal was eaten in companionable silence.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: **Yikes, it's been _how_ long since I updated? Sorry. Life's been pretty stressful for me recently, plus I've branched out to writing more onshots and those are taking up a fair amount of my time. But fear not! I never forget about this story and I keep coming back to it because it's just so damn fun to write. ;-) Special thanks to SecondaryPsychopath for leaving a review that reminded me to get my rear in gear and finish this chapter.

As a reward for waiting so long so patiently, I give you some kissy-kissies. Also, I now have a Tumblr if any of you are into that whole thing. Link on my profile and I update that way more frequently than I can write entire chapters.

Without further ado, enjoy! Please leave a review if you like it.

* * *

**Chapter XIX**

A few days passed and I was in limbo. I spent nearly half of my time at Baker Street, but still plenty at my aunt's flat. I drifted in between like a confused wraith.

For some reason, Holmes did not seem to mind. He greeted me every afternoon when I turned up at his door like a lost puppy and bade me a formal farewell each evening as I left to make my way back to my own bed. Sometimes he arrived at Baker Street at the same time as I did, presumably back from working the Nichols case, but we rarely spoke of it. I was waiting for the coroner's report before I could make my own judgment on whether the killer had been the same.

On the fourth day of this strange unspoken arrangement I arrived just after noon to find my friend deeply immersed in a chemical experiment. It was a particularly noxious one so I strode across to throw open the window before joining him at the table. A beaker was shoved towards my face with no warning. "Give this a whiff, won't you, Russell?"

I sniffed the white mixture cautiously and choked on the scent. It seemed to suck the air out of my lungs with its intensity. "Ammonia gas?" I managed to cough.

"It should be," he said almost wistfully, his nose wrinkled with deep thought. "I'm not convinced." When I continued to make strangled noises he glanced up at me to see water spilling from my eyes uncontrollably. Ammonia from a distance is unpleasant, and from such close proximity it's overwhelming. With an impatient gesture he whipped a handkerchief from his inside pocket and offered it to me. I clutched at the slip of fabric and held it to my face until I had removed myself to the window for a breath of fresh air while Holmes finished recording his results in a meticulous little notebook.

It was a fine early September day. The sun was just beginning to thoroughly bake the cobbles down on the street. Some little distance away, the voice of a young boy advertised an early edition of the _Standard_. The general bustle of carriages, businesslike footsteps, and conversations bubbled up to the window in a soothing murmur. I gulped down the stale, late-summer air, clearing my lungs of the cloying stench of Holmes's chemicals, and dabbed a little at my still-damp eyes with the handkerchief.

_The_ handkerchief, in fact, I realized. It was threadbare and grey with years of being carried in various pockets and the stately legs of the _H _were beginning to unravel. And yet Holmes had been carrying it in his pocket…

I smiled to myself. He probably had not realized what he had handed me. We had been back on speaking terms for all of four days and I was not keen on analyzing his motives too closely.

"Thank you," I said, and placed the handkerchief back into the outstretched hand. He returned it to his pocket without looking at it or me. "Are you satisfied with your ammonia yet?"

"Perhaps," he said cryptically, and set a watch glass on the beaker so that the gases produced in the reaction could be allowed to collect. Then he stood and stretched his arms over his head.

I scanned his form surreptitiously. He had not yet shaved and his clothes were heavily wrinkled beneath his dressing gown. I could see dark hollows beneath his eyes which only served to emphasize his skeletal cheekbones. As he arched his back in a strangely feline way, he actually concealed a yawn. I raised my eyebrows and tugged my stare from his handsome face (I felt starved of his features after the long summer). "Holmes, did you sleep last night?"

"Last night? No. No, I was reading. Oh, Russell, Lestrade said he would be by sometime this afternoon. He has news about the Nichols murder." And with this he made his way to the mantle to fill a pipe.

I nodded slowly. Until then it would probably be another lazy afternoon in 221B. I knew that Mrs. Hudson had left my things in my closet, so I stole down to retrieve a book while Holmes went through the complex ritual of lighting his pipe.

For some reason, my fingers lighted on the manuscript copy of _A Study in Scarlet_ which Watson had given me. I brought it back upstairs to where Holmes was reclining with his own chosen material: a detailed description of colloquialisms unique to each class and region in America. If he saw which book I carried he gave no reaction, so I curled my feet beneath me in the chair next to the empty fireplace and set aside the title page.

It did not take long for me to fall into the story—I could visualize it in perfect clarity, being so familiar with all of the characters and settings. Watson and his friend Stamford, whom I had met at some function a few years previously, discussing the war and his need for lodgings. Watson being guided to the hospital laboratory, where Holmes unknowingly waited for his best friend, obsessing over his chemicals as he made revolutionary breakthroughs one after the other.

"'Ha! ha!' he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a child with a new toy," I moved my lips silently as I read. They stretched involuntarily into a smile. How long had it been since I had seen Holmes express such innocent, enthusiastic excitement over his work?

"What was that, Russell?" my friend asked curiously. I shook my head and kept reading.

"His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination." This time I both read and laughed aloud. Holmes looked up sharply and I wondered whether he recognized the event or simply the words themselves.

"I don't understand why you so enjoy reading Watson's stories when you have lived through enough adventure of your own," he remarked thoughtfully. "And they are so heavily embellished."

"Uncle John is an excellent writer, whether or not you believe it to be true. He embellishes, yes, but the stories are so vivid! And I was not there for these adventures," I countered. "I know your modesty does not allow you to accept praise, but I do enjoy reading of your exploits."

This last was a direct jab and he knew it. Fortunately, he took it in good humor and chuckled. "Ah, well. Perhaps someday I will be reading of your adventures."

"Mmm," I hummed, turning another page. "Perhaps."

* * *

Several hours passed in blessed silence. I finished the book fairly quickly, chuckling in all of the appropriate places and appreciating the neat conclusion as usual. Then I picked up that book on Dalton's atomic theory, which had mysteriously remained on the table for my entire absence, and tried to make more headway into that.

Finally, once I had given up on Mr. Dalton, I took to stealing glances at Holmes over the top of the book. His face was drawn into an expression of relaxed concentration which was very familiar to me. His right leg was draped over his left and he gently jostled his knee up and down. I had known him to sit perfectly still for hours on end, but now he was restless.

My eyes were drawn back to his face. One brow lowered thoughtfully as he chewed the stem of his pipe. It was a striking face, I thought fancifully. The dark eyes flickered rapidly across the page, then the next. Suddenly they met mine as he glanced up.

For a moment, we only shared a look. Smoke hung between us like a veil and the noise from the street was dull and distant. I cast about for a topic of conversation to relieve the obvious tension.

"Holmes?"

He broke the visual contact to turn and tap his pipe into the fireplace. "Yes Russell."

"That man who was here the day—the day I left—what was the case?"

"A young woman came to me looking for a lost fiancé. The man who was here was her stepfather, who had been posing as the young man in order to put her off of love and retain her fortune for himself." Disgust was evident in his voice.

"Ah," I said, realization dawning. "I wondered what could induce you to threaten a man with a whip. Of course it would be some issue of chivalry."

"Chivalry has nothing to do with it," my friend scoffed. "The man was playing horrendous mind games with his stepdaughter. I could not simply stand by—"

"You might have told the girl," I said, a little irate.

Holmes laughed. "Not all young women can shoulder their problems with as much strength as you, Russell."

"I think they could," I parried, "if they were raised to think so."

"Touché." Holmes paused to tap his pipe into the fireplace, and then suddenly he was standing over me, looking down with an expression of soft affection. "That does not change the fact that you are quite extraordinary."

Everything went perfectly still. I craned my neck upwards to try and read the expression on his face, which was lit from behind by the window. "Thank you," I murmured hoarsely, my throat suddenly constricted and my mouth dry.

"Russell," Holmes croaked, and then his dark form rushed down towards me. His thin lips plucked at mine, urgently at first and then softer as I did not pull away. His long fingers pushed their way into my hair and I gingerly brought my arms up around him as though he might disappear from me at a moment's notice. One of his wiry arms wrapped tightly around my waist and pulled me close, his fingernails dragging along my spine in a way that did strange things to my capability for rational thinking. I grazed my teeth along his lower lip and he drew a great shuddering breath—

An irate knock sounded at the door. I woke up.

"That will be Lestrade," Holmes said, and shut his book with a neat snap as he stood to receive his guest. I nodded and rubbed at my bleary eyes, still struggling to pull myself from the strange (_and wonderful_, my mind whispered) dream. This was no time for fantasizing.

In truth, this was not the first such dream I had experienced, but they had all taken place over the summer when my friend was not present to bring the memories back with such clarity. As he tugged his dressing gown from his shoulders and threw it onto the back of a chair, I could actually remember the way the silken fabric had felt against my fingers, and how the sharp ridges of his shoulder blades had moved beneath them as he leaned towards me.

I cleared my throat, preparing to excuse myself for a walk. I would miss the chance to question Lestrade and Holmes would think that I still grieved Sidney, or that I was too disturbed by the memory of the crime scene to discuss it further, but I didn't care. My clothing felt stiff and hot and scratchy and I needed to leave. "Holmes?"

But it was too late. The door had been opened and my friend only had time to shoot me a brief quizzical glance before the Inspector strode into the sitting room.

"Mr. Holmes, I am pleased to report that we have identified the Whitechapel Killer."


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N:** Sorry guys. This whole semester is absolutely insane and I've had very little time to write at all.

That being said, this chapter is a little bit longer! Not much relating to the "main" plot, but there is a "girl talk with Mrs. Hudson" scene that kind of came out of nowhere and which I thought was good enough to keep. So sit back, relax, and enjoy! (And as always, please review. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy.)

* * *

**Chapter XX**

Holmes had been working with Lestrade too long to take this statement at face value. "Indeed?"

"Yes. Our best men have been interviewing the… er… ladies of questionable repute in the area-"

"The prostitutes, you mean," Holmes said, preferring to be direct as always.

"Er, yes. It appears that there is a mysterious gen—a man, anyway, who has been extorting money from them for quite some time. We have discovered that Mary Nichols was turned away from a boarding house because she lacked the five pence necessary for a bed. It seems logical that this man might have approached her to collect his 'fee' and become angry when she had nothing to give him."

"Speculation aside," I interjected, "do you have any descriptions of the man?" Holmes flashed me a half-smile, though whether because I had employed his methods or simply because my odd behavior had subsided I could not say.

"The women call him 'leather apron'. That is all we know, though one or two of them said that he sometimes wore a deerstalker hat."

"A deerstalker hat?" Holmes asked. "In summer and the middle of the city?"

It was tempting to make some jab at Holmes himself, for the imaginative Sidney Paget had (for some inexplicable reason) chosen to portray him in the very same hunting garb in his illustrations to accompany Watson's stories. But I remained silent.

"I only know what my men and I have been told," Lestrade said, which earned him a huff of disapproval. He backtracked. "We have, of course, made a careful observation of the scene of the crime and the surrounding area, but there is little to be found in such pursuits."

"Indeed," Holmes said in amusement. "I have no doubt in your abilities, Detective Inspector, but might I send someone along to assist in your investigations? An extra pair of eyes must be welcome with your forces stretched so thin at the moment, and it would save you the trouble of coming here to report."

I could see a battle raging in Lestrade's mind. On the one hand, he knew precisely who Holmes intended to send, and having a young American girl investigating alongside his men was obviously not an enticing prospect. Besides, the idea that he 'reported' to Holmes was probably abhorrent. Nevertheless, Holmes's arguments had been good ones, and he had no real reason to doubt my abilities. I watched this side win out as a bitter expression crept across his face. "Very well, Holmes. Miss Russell may accompany me back to Whitechapel, if she chooses—I only stopped on my way."

"You don't wish to investigate for yourself?" I asked my friend, somewhat curious as to why I was being sent as a proxy.

"I have some resources of my own which I wish to pursue," Holmes responded vaguely. "We can discuss our individual findings at dinner. Covent Gardens, six o'clock?"

"Six o'clock precisely," I agreed, aware of his occasional tendency to become absorbed in something and lose all sense of time.

"Precisely," he echoed me once more, before darting to the stand and tossing me my coat. "Now go!"

I couldn't help but laugh at his restless energy. Lestrade followed me out the door and we jogged down the stairs, passing Watson.

"They finally found you, I see, Mary," he commented, chuckling to himself at his own joke. I ignored him and made my way out to the cab Lestrade had kept waiting. I climbed in without waiting for him to hold the door, which unsettled him I think, and then he reluctantly followed.

Before the cabbie pulled away, I just had time to notice a young woman loitering on the sidewalk outside 221. It was easy to see that she was a client; she was wringing her hands—I wasn't sure I had ever seen anyone actually do that. Her straw-blonde hair was coiled into a tight arrangement beneath a grey turban with a rather limp white feather. Her dress was well-made but simple, which spoke of taste lacking wealth.

The way she leaned towards the door and away from it, towards and away, told me that it would be several minutes before she finally got up the courage to go inside. She looked determined enough to do it eventually. I was intrigued by the soft, uncertain curve of her mouth, which contrasted so directly with the flint in her eyes. This would be an interesting case to hear about over dinner.

* * *

At six thirty, I was sitting at a candlelit table by myself—neither the lighting nor the solitude was my choice, but they seemed to complement each other nicely.

My waiter placed a carafe of red wine on the table with thinly-veiled impatience. "Perhaps madame would care to order while she awaits her friend?"

I pursed my lips, thinking. It was difficult to tell whether Holmes had caught a small lead and would arrive in a matter of minutes, or whether he was so immersed in his research that I would return to Baker Street and find him in a tobacco haze under piles of encyclopedias. "Yes, that sounds like an excellent idea." I ordered my dinner and sat back to wait.

* * *

Approximately an hour and a half later, I had to abandon my table. I had leisurely enjoyed my lamb in mint sauce, then a slice of thick, creamy coconut cake, and finally several cups of coffee. After drinking most of the wine and large quantities of the bitter black liquid, my mind was buzzing in a strange mix of suspended relaxation and vague uneasiness.

My bladder protested as I stood and walked slowly out to the street in hopes of hailing a cab. The alcohol was trying to convince me to be worried about Holmes, but the rational part of my mind knew that he was probably out scouring Whitechapel for anything I had missed. He was welcome to do so—my afternoon had been fruitless. A few of the women had been more open to speaking with me than the police, but I had only gleaned wispy variations on the rumors we had already heard.

I hailed a cab but flagged it on, pretending to change my mind. I completed the same ritual with the second before taking the third cab which presented itself. I used to think that this suggestion of Holmes's was mere paranoia, but after being kidnapped and abused as I had the previous winter, I was willing to endure the inconvenience to protect my safety.

The streets of London were quiet. Dusk had fallen merely a half an hour previously and the occasional beam of sunset orange light pierced the grimy purple darkness settling over the city. At my yawned request, the cabbie directed us West along Piccadilly and towards Hyde Park before turning North to Baker Street. I was in no hurry to return to what I was now convinced would be an empty flat.

The horse jostled us along at a leisurely pace. The sharp impacts of his hooves with the cobblestones prevented the movement of the cab from lulling me into a light sleep—at least, they did for a while. When I had finished admiring the last blooms in the park and settled myself back into the worn seat, my eyes slid shut of their own accord and I drifted from dream to dream.

First I was back in the dank basement of last winter's captivity. I chewed ravenously on the chunk of stale bread I clutched in my blue fingers, unwilling to release my prey long enough to tug my rotting shawl back around my shoulders. Just past the door, I could hear screams and insane laughter and the crackling of a large fire. They did not concern me. All I could think about was the bread in my fingers which was slowly dulling the scratching hunger in my stomach.

There was a slash of pain like a knife and I was walking the street, alone. The shawl covered a torn and mistreated dress. Not by me, I thought. It had been ripped by greedy hands. My shoes were falling from my feet, exposing my bruised skin to the frosty cobbles. Purposeful footsteps followed me. I felt panicked. Those feet matched the hands that had torn my dress, I knew.

Coattails swirled around a corner in front of me. A small square of white fabric lay on the street behind them. "Holmes!" I cried out, breaking into a painful run in an attempt to catch up with him, but a thick arm wrapped around my waist. It dragged me backwards and I overbalanced, falling into a tall body behind me.

"You'll see him soon enough," a gruff voice said. "We've just got to send him a little message first…" The tip of a knife pressed into my already-scarred shoulder and I screamed for all I was worth.

"Miss!" A weak hand on my arm was shaking me awake. "Miss!"

I started awake, scream dying as I did so, to see the pale, thin face of the cabbie. Behind him was the familiar door of 221.

I cleared my throat. "I apologize, Sir, for giving you a fright. It is nothing."

He nodded, relief evident on his face as he helped me down from my perch. A beam of warm light suddenly struck the fading evening as Mrs. Hudson opened the door.

"Miss Russell?" she asked. "I thought I heard a commotion."

I pressed a few coins into the cabbie's gloved hands—more than my fare, as an apology for falling asleep in such a manner—before turning to her. "It was nothing, Mrs. Hudson. Just a few children playing in the street."

She seemed to accept this explanation, because she opened the door wider and beckoned me in. I was surrounded by that smell which had startled me so on my first visit to Baker Street: burning chemicals and a lackluster bowl of late-summer roses, with a hint of baking bread and pipe smoke over the whole. Now it reminded me of home.

And home it was. I had barely spoken to my aunt since I had returned to Baker Street a few days previously. Instead, I had cleaned out the clutter from my closet and created a new system for storing clothing and books so that I might stay there indefinitely. I had even asked Mrs. Hudson about paying rent but she had refused, saying only that the work I did helping her and keeping Mr. Holmes in a good mood was payment enough. I think that she liked having another woman in the house, once she had accepted the impropriety of the whole situation.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked hopefully, and I smiled.

"I would enjoy nothing more. I take it that Holmes is not in?" I shrugged out of my coat and removed my hat as I followed her inside, pushing my nightmares to the back of my mind.

"No, he and Dr. Watson met a young lady at six and went off to help her with something. I believe she had a rather interesting case," she mused, "for I could hear Mr. Holmes pacing all afternoon and evening."

I shook my head. "I hope that he was contemplating whether the case was interesting enough to miss our dinner arrangement!"

Mrs. Hudson chuckled to herself as she made tea. "I imagine that that was a difficult choice. You were meeting him… er… alone?"

"I don't know what you're implying, Mrs. Hudson," I said, drawing myself up in artificial haughtiness. She laughed and I plopped down into one of her kitchen chairs. When it was just the two of us, we always sat here, where the warm glow of the stove kept our toes comfortable. The sitting room was prettier but draftier. "Yes, I was in Whitechapel interviewing some women about that murder. It's a grisly business but Holmes and I think it might be connected to my kidnapping. He told me that he was going to do some research of his own, and we were to discuss our findings when we met at Covent Gardens."

The older woman made a thoughtful noise as she gently removed the lid from a tin and pulled various types of biscuits from inside, arranging them absentmindedly on a dish. "I'm surprised that he chose the case, in all honesty. Dr. Watson seemed to have more interest in it than he did. And I know how much Mr. Holmes enjoys your company."

"I'm not sure what you mean by that," I said carefully. Mrs. Hudson was aware of our close friendship, I knew, but there was always the risk of some kind of scandal if a nosy reader of Watson's stories discovered that I was essentially living with the two men. I was always cautious of how our relationship was interpreted.

The landlady set a steaming cup of tea before me, followed by the plate of sweets. She cradled her own drink in her hands as she sat opposite me. "May I be frank with you, Miss Russell?"

"Of course."

She took a long sip of her tea. "Do you have the understanding that Mr. Holmes is courting you?"

I choked and spilled tea down the front of my dress. "What?"

"I only meant," she continued, handing me a towel, "that he seems very fond of you. The only person I've ever seen him show half as much affection towards is Dr. Watson, and Dr. Watson is not a young, pretty woman."

"Perhaps Mr. Holmes is not interested in young, pretty women," I suggested, aggressively wiping at my bodice. It was a thought which had crossed my mind. It even seemed probable at times.

I thought that Mrs. Hudson might sputter in disbelief, but instead she only smiled. "I think that it is entirely possible for Mr. Holmes to be interested in women _and_… others." The nature of our conversation caught up with me and I felt my neck flush. "My only intention is to make sure that you are not in any way uncomfortable," she continued, ignoring my current discomfort. "I know that Mr. Holmes does not always express himself well. I have no idea if the feelings are reciprocated—"

"Mrs. Hudson!" I choked out. I found it difficult to believe that this prim, proper old woman was launching so steadfastly into the topic.

"Oh dear," she said hurriedly. "I've overstepped myself, I think. I apologize, Miss Russell, I never meant to insinuate—"

"It's all right—" I started. We both fell awkwardly silent. My heart, still a little sensitive from the wine I had consumed earlier, was racing. If Mrs. Hudson thought that she had noticed something odd in Holmes's behavior, then perhaps there was. She had seemed so enthusiastic about the prospect…

"It is my belief," I said a little too forcefully, "that Mr. Holmes is not usually one to form close connections. When he does come across someone whom he finds agreeable—such as Dr. Watson, or myself—he has some difficulty expressing himself. I do not think that any oddity of behavior or small show of affection necessarily means that he—that I—that there is any _courting_ going on." I forced the whole sentence out in one breath and fell back.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson said again, a little sadly. "And I had so hoped that you two had some sort of arrangement."

"No. There is no arrangement, besides the fact that we enjoy each other's company."

She rose suddenly and went to a drawer. I watched in silence as she shifted a few objects, muttering to herself under her breath. This entire conversation felt surreal, like something from one of my dreams. One of my nightmares, even.

I had felt a growing attachment to Holmes recently. I could not deny that. But to have it confronted so matter-of-factly by a close friend made it all so real and frightening. It was as though I were standing on a precipice, looking beneath my feet to unknown and shrouded depths. There was a promise of something wonderful there, but surely I would be dashed on the rocks before I could discover it. And promises could certainly be empty.

After a few moments, Mrs. Hudson pulled a necklace out of the drawer. With a jolt of recognition, I realized that it was Holmes's mother's locket. The shining silver disk swung gaily on the end of its fine chain and caught the gaslight.

My expression must have clearly shown my confusion because she smiled a little and explained herself. "With Mr. Holmes showing you so much attention when you returned in January, he apparently had no thought for his mother's necklace. I thought that you might perhaps wish to return it to him in its repaired state."

Guilt coiled in my stomach as I remembered that I, too, had forgotten the beautiful necklace. I thought back to my birthday party and how happy I had been with all of my friends. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the ghost of Holmes's fingers brushing my collarbone as he clasped the fine object around my neck.

Now, my throat grew thick at Mrs. Hudson's thoughtfulness. "I don't know what to say. I must repay you, of course—"

"I wouldn't dream of it!" she said dismissively, settling the locket into my palm. "It is a gift."

The smooth face of the closed clock bore a slightly different pattern now: more flowers and fewer vines. All of its tarnish had been removed and it shone like a new coin. I pressed the catch and was rewarded by the familiar delicate ticking and a slight motion of the gracefully-pointed hands. I had not realized how much I had missed that reassuring beat until it was back in my hands, fluttering like something alive.

The landlady cleared her throat. "It was going to be a wedding present—"

"Mrs. Hudson!" I started to my feet, upending my remaining tea onto the worn tile of the floor.

She only laughed as I flushed and darted to clean it up. "Of course I am joking, Miss Russell. You and Mr. Holmes clearly make each other very happy, whatever you are doing in each other's company. I think that it's wonderful." She pulled the towel from my fingers. "Now go upstairs and rest, I know that you'll be up to hear about the case whatever hour those two return." Using the towel to shoo me out, she called after me, "And make sure to tell Holmes that you waited on him for dinner! He's like a child sometimes, doesn't give a whit for consequences…"

Her speech faded away as I escaped into closet, determined to put all thoughts of nightmares and romance from my head and get a few hours of sleep before Holmes and Watson invariably returned in the wee hours of the morning.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N:** *chanting softly* sorry sorry SORRY sorry SORRY SORRY sorry sorry sorry

I have been experiencing the most awful writer's block on this story, you guys, and all I can do is apologize. But I FINALLY broke through, I got the next (final!) three chapters plotted, figured out where the hell this is all going, and made myself sit down and write it. You'll probably get the rest of it before the end of August, though I do hesitate to say that because I might jinx it.

Anyway, I'm really REALLY sorry I haven't updated in so long, but I definitely haven't forgotten about this. I've just been focusing on some shorter things.

As always, it means a lot to me if you review with your thoughts, and it might mean you get the next chapter faster, too! Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with this, I love you and you all make me very happy.

* * *

**Chapter XXI**

I awoke a little after eight the following morning. The sound which had roused me must have been part of my dream, I thought, for it had sounded like the whining of a dog.

Sure enough, once I had dressed and ascended the stairs to 221B, a pair of dirty paws pressed against my legs as the creature begged for affection. It was a strange little thing; one ear seemed to be permanently inside-out and its scruffy brown and white fur was matted and muddy. It was too much of a mutt for me to identify any one breed, but it seemed cheerful enough.

I bent down to scratch behind its ear. "Hello, little fellow. What's your name?"

"Toby."

I glanced up to see Holmes standing over me. He didn't look much better than the mutt, what with his muddy clothing and disheveled hair. Despite his ragged appearance, his mood seemed improved from its recent state.

"You don't seem the type to bring home strays," I said as I returned my attention to Toby, who had rolled over to have his stomach petted.

Holmes chuckled to himself. "And yet you can be found lurking about more often than not."

Before I could release my equally witty retort, Watson appeared from down the hall. He too looked like he had been dragged across the countryside all night, and the hunch to his shoulders told me that it had been more taxing on him than on Holmes.

"Good morning Uncle John!"

"Good morning, Mary," he said with a yawn. "Although perhaps I should be saying 'good night,' considering that I am just now preparing for bed."

"Mrs. Hudson told me that woman I saw outside yesterday afternoon brought an interesting case. I take it that's why the two of you are just getting home?"

Watson's eyes brightened as he poured himself a cup of tea from the pot on the table. "Yes, her name is Mary Morstan. Quite an extraordinarily strong woman, I should say. And the case is rather exciting too."

"Ah, but you take more interest in the woman than the case," I teased, earning a scowl and a flush from my friend.

"I never said any such thing."

"That's all right. With the rough night you've had I wouldn't be too invested in the case either."

Holmes had settled into his chair and lit a pipe, which he was now alternating with his cup of tea. "Any progress of your own, Russell?"

"No," I admitted. "Clearly you've made some."

"Some. Watson was invaluable, as was Toby."

"I wouldn't say invaluable," Watson said. He had a tendency to downplay his abilities, I knew, especially when Holmes was involved, but if Holmes had said he was invaluable then I was certain he had been. "Anyway, it's been a very long night. If we plan to continue investigating later in the day, I ought to get some sleep." He drained his tea and replaced the cup on the table before pointing at Holmes. "As your friend and your doctor, Holmes, you ought to sleep too. Lord knows you get little enough without chasing dogs across half the city all night."

Holmes waved dismissively as his friend trudged off down the hallway. I scooped Toby up as I stood—this was something of a feat, considering that he was large and bony and lay limply across my arms, but I held him to my chest nonetheless—and made my way over to a chair, where I sat with the dog on my lap. "Did you forget that we were supposed to meet for dinner last night?"

"No." He set down his tea in order to devote his whole attention to his pipe. "However, Miss Morstan received a letter instructing her to bring two friends and meet a mysterious benefactor outside the Lyceum Theatre at seven yesterday evening. The case seemed urgent."

He continued to fill me in on the mystery of her father's disappearance and the lustrous pearls which she had been sent every year for the last six, then the gruesome murder which he and Watson had discovered and the creosote trail they had employed Toby to track.

"It does sound a very interesting affair," I admitted, stroking Toby's head. "I only wish I had known that you intended to pursue it. I might have accompanied you and offered the lady some comfort, at least."

Holmes sighed and suddenly I could see how weary he was; the exertion had taken its toll on him too, it would seem. "I know, Russell. Please believe that it was not my intention to abandon you—at least, certainly not when we made arrangements. I should have contacted you after Miss Morstan presented her case."

"Yes, you should have." I bent to set Toby on the floor and stood, remembering the repaired locket in my room downstairs. "Fortunately, all I would have been able to tell you was that I had found nothing. Excuse me, I need to get something from my closet." He nodded.

Less than a minute later, I was back upstairs, where Holmes had picked up that morning's _Star_ and was reading it with furrowed brow. "What's wrong?"

He scowled and tossed me the paper. I managed to catch it without dropping the locket and turned it over to see what he had been reading. There, in bold, slightly smudged lettering, was a headline: _WHITECHAPEL KILLER STILL NOT FOUND. _Beneath that in slightly more reasonable text it said _Police Suspect Man With Leather Apron_.

"How on earth could—have the police released anything to the press yet?" I stammered, locket temporarily forgotten. The last thing our investigation needed was to have all of London in a frenzy of terror because the press were anxious to sell papers.

"It would seem so."

"Well, what are we going to do?"

"I'm not sure that we can do anything but ask Scotland Yard to keep things a little quieter." Despite his nonchalant words, I could see that the publicity was as unwelcome as it was unexpected.

"Oh, well. I take it that there is not much of anything for you to do on Miss Morstan's case until your irregulars locate the steamer?"

"No," Holmes bemoaned, "I am on a rather enforced leave from the case until we have more information."

"In that case, and since I know you have no intention of sleeping, I won't worry about taking your time to present you with this." I let the locket swing free from my grasp to dance on the end of its chain. The curtains were partially drawn in sympathy of tired eyes but it still sparkled merrily in the low light.

Holmes reached out to brush the silver with his fingers. "The locket? But it was destroyed when—in January."

"I can't take all the credit," I explained, handing it to him for closer examination. "Or any of it, really. Mrs. Hudson had it repaired as a sort of gift." I remembered how she had joked about it being a wedding present and felt a flush on my face.

It was difficult to read my friend's expression while he inspected the craftsmanship of the necklace's repairs. Once he had opened it and pressed it to his ear and heard the soft mechanical beat of its gears, he nodded and handed it back to me. I accepted it but froze, unsure. "But Holmes, this was your mother's. Last time I had it..."

"It was a gift," he said firmly. "It belongs to you now."

I splayed my fingers in the delicate chain and looped it over my head. The clock itself dropped back to its familiar place over my breastbone, where its second tiny heartbeat could be felt even through my dress. A deep feeling of reassurance spread over me and I smiled. "Thank you, Holmes."

"You're welcome, Russell."

* * *

The next three days were something of a blur. First Holmes became the bundle of suppressed energy he always did while awaiting information on a case, and with Watson frequently absent—visiting Miss Morstan, I suspected—I could only find pleasant company outside the flat. I wandered aimlessly in the streets and even shopped and cleaned for Mrs. Hudson when my own whimsy was exhausted. Then Holmes and Watson were off on the trail once more, leaving me to clean 221B in their absence. My old habits were soothing if not particularly enjoyable.

Dr. Watson became engaged to Miss Morstan—"Why Uncle John, my congratulations! Goodness, this is all very sudden, but my congratulations to you both, I so look forward to meeting the lovely lady."-and Holmes sulked for the evening. He too expressed his approval, of course, for how could he not support his closest friend? "But love is an emotional thing," he added, "and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things." After this remark he threw me the sort of sideways glance that left me unsure whether or not he meant this sarcastically. It did seem like the kind of phrase Watson might attribute to him merely for oddity of character. I did think, however, that he did not enjoy the prospect of "losing" Watson to the domestic life he so despised.

The next day Holmes was tied up in the last dregs of Miss Morstan's case, which meant that, when the urgent telegram came through that there had been another murder in Whitechapel, I went unaccompanied to the scene. There was no denying that it was the same culprit; indeed, the body of Annie Chapman was even more grisly and disfigured than that of Mary Anne Nichols. But I could find nothing new at the scene, and neither could Holmes when he came to follow up later in the evening.

This time, at least, I avoided any inconvenient fainting spells.

* * *

September bled by, equal parts frenzied research and disappointed inactivity. Some time after the capture and release of the first suspect by Scotland Yard, I got up the courage to look inside a long-untouched drawer of Holmes's desk when he was out at a musical performance. Not only had he evidently used the cocaine since I had last seen the bottle, but it had been emptied and replaced by a new one. Thinking back, I had not seen Holmes with his shirtsleeves rolled up since my return to Baker Street. _It's been three years, Russell. Did you really believe that he wouldn't touch it in all that time? _Although I made no comment to him, I was sure that he would realize I had been poking my nose where it wasn't wanted. I never opened the drawer again.

On September 27, Scotland Yard called us in to inspect the curious little envelope received by the Central News Agency that day. It was crumpled and worn and lettered in red and contained a note that would become almost as famous as Holmes himself:

_Dear Boss,_

_I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping when till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp and I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck._

_Yours truly_

_Jack the Ripper_

_Dont mind me giving the trade name_

My stomach turned at the callous, enthusiastic descriptions of torture and murder. Holmes snatched the first page out of my hand, muttering about _could be a fake, after two murders it's certainly not a secret _and _it might fit the pattern for our man, but why would he send it to the Central and not to me_ while I turned the second page sideways to read the post script:

_PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands_

_curse it_

_No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. Ha ha._

It was the little chuckle at the end which made my anger boil over, I think. Even the bodies themselves did not fill me with fury like the words of whatever maniac had put them there.

"Do you really think there's someone in London with a bottle of congealed blood and red-stained hands?" I asked Holmes, pulling him out of his muttered commentary of the letter. "Would it be worth scouring Whitechapel again?"

"I'm afraid I don't think so, Russell. If anything we should be analyzing this letter. There's a very real possibility that it's a hoax, I'm afraid, but if it is real then it's the biggest lead we have right now."

Three days later, two more bodies were found, even more brutally mutilated, within an hour of each other. The next day the police released the contents of the "Dear Boss" letter to the public as the papers were still swamped with the rush to cover the murders. The letter gave us nothing, and neither did the scenes of the next two deaths.

A terrifying serial killer was on the loose in London. The city turned to the police and the police to the great Sherlock Holmes, but the reality was that we were going nowhere. Even Watson could only devote so much of his time to helping, so busy was he with preparations for his own wedding. The papers inflamed every little hint and rumor so that you scarcely heard anything but panicked whispers among the populous. Holmes rebelled against his powerlessness in every way he knew how, much to the unhappiness of the rest of us, and I went word by word through every clue we had amassed about the case. Nothing helped—if it wasn't Moriarty and Sidney wasn't the mastermind, I could find no other directions to look. All we could do was wait for another strike and hope our killer would make a mistake.

Jack the Ripper was running circles around us.

* * *

**A/N: **If you're interested, there are lots of places you can read more about the Jack the Ripper murders and letters. At this point I can say that because it won't spoil anything else. If you see a link to crime scene pictures, they are obviously VERY graphic, so please use caution. Thanks!


	22. Chapter 22

_**A/N:** *looks at promise I made to post this by the end of August* Well. This is awkward._

_Don't worry though! This is the longest chapter yet, and the next chapter will be even longer! It will also be the last chapter. I have everything outlined properly now and everything will be wrapped up. *muffled screaming*_

_I'm so excited for you guys to read this chapter. It has its awkward bits but I think the end is worth it._

_Other than that, I just want to say _thank you_. This story has been a WIP for a year and a half and now it's almost over. I don't want to make any more promises I can't keep about when the last chapter will be out, but it _will_ be out, and it's all because of the people who have been reading and enjoying and reviewing for so long. It truly means more to me than you know._

_And with that, I'd like to hand things back over to Russell for the penultimate installment of her adventures with Holmes._

* * *

**Chapter XXII**

Have you ever stood on the edge of a precipice and looked down?

First comes the giddiness. Your head swirls and your body begins to feel as though it is already falling. By the time you remember your feet, firmly planted on the ground, the sensation is almost appealing. You can become addicted to the thrill of almost-falls.

What fascinates me, though, is the war raging in your mind for those first few seconds. There's always some little part of you that imagines soaring down into the abyss below, hair streaming, arms stretched wide as the wind buffets you. Then there's the voice of reason that makes you rock back on your heels to avoid overbalancing.

The Ripper case always felt a bit like that to me; Holmes and I teetered on the edge of discovery—just on the brink of tumbling into the great relief of understanding—but there was always an invisible thread to pull us back.

I tried to articulate this to Holmes one rainy October day.

"That's not a very good analogy, Russell," my friend chided as he dropped some milky, viscous liquid into a beaker. "It isn't self-preservation keeping us from solving the case—indeed, our survival may depend upon our ability to do so."

I sighed and closed the book I at which I had been staring blankly for the last half an hour. "I just feel like we're so close. Like there's one little line holding us back, and if we can snap it the whole thing will unfold in front of us."

"Now you're mixing your metaphors."

"Oh, keep it to yourself," I snapped.

To his credit, Holmes did look abashed. "I'm sorry."

Apologies were unusual from the Great Detective (the more of Watson's stories I read, the more I thought of the title with capital letters), but frankly I was tired of being cooped up with him. I stood and stretched without responding.

"Going somewhere?"

"I'm going to go ask to see the letter again. Maybe we missed something before."

"Would you like me to come with you?"

I hesitated, which I'm sure did not go unnoticed. "No, that's all right. I'll be home to help Mrs. Hudson with supper."

* * *

Of course I didn't find anything on my fourteenth examination of the letter. Even after the trouble of convincing the officer on duty that, yes, DI Lestrade could confirm that I was allowed to inspect the evidence, I only turned it over in my hands a few times before leaving again.

I began to regret my promise of assisting with supper. It was already getting dark, and the rain was coming down harder than ever. Eventually I gave up on catching a cab anywhere near Scotland Yard and determined to walk until I found an unoccupied one.

Sometimes, when one's mind is completely absorbed in a problem, the best strategy is to think of something entirely different for a while. For this reason I allowed my mind to wander to various issues of no importance: what I had had for breakfast that morning, for example, and whether I ought to replace my shoes.

After a few blocks I felt a telltale prickle on the back of my neck. I was being followed.

The streetlights did little to illuminate my surroundings, and everyone was indoors to escape the weather. My shoes would find little purchase on the rain-slicked cobbles if I had to run. It would be advantageous to lose my pursuer as quickly as possible.

My favorite method was to perform an abrupt about-face and dive down some alley before my tail realized what had happened. However, alone and unarmed in poor visibility, walking directly towards a potential assailant seemed a greater risk than I was willing to take.

I turned south and began scanning my path for any pubs or inns where I could duck inside and be lost in the crowd. I found none but was encouraged by the sounds of a busy street up ahead. Before I could reach this sanctuary, however, whatever minute observation had alerted me to danger faded and I had an overwhelming instinct that I was no longer being followed. I risked my double-back strategy and confirmed that I was alone.

_Perhaps you're just being paranoid_, I thought uneasily. The last several months had been trying and I had to admit I was more than a little on edge. _Then again, maybe you're not_.

I hurried to the well-traveled street I had heard and had no trouble obtaining a hansom. I went beyond even Holmes's usual cautious measures and took the fifth that presented itself, being sure to give my driver an address several blocks away from Baker Street.

By the time I arrived home I was chiding myself for not investigating further. If my tail had turned and walked back down the alley through which he had been following me, performing the same maneuver would have put me in a position to follow him. Then I might have put my mind at ease—or even gained valuable information.

In any case, I was wet, cold, and frustrated when I was nearly knocked down by a frenzied Dr. Watson.

"I beg your pardon Mary," he said hurriedly as he placed a large hand on my shoulder to steady me. "Is Holmes with you?"

"No, last I saw he was upstairs working on one of his experiments. Why do you ask?"

"He left just after you did. He said he was going to meet you at Scotland Yard and bring you home because he had learned something new about the case."

A thrill shot down my spine, followed instantly by dread. "But I haven't seen him. If he really left just after me we should have met at the station."

Watson looked grim. "He told me to expect him back in under half an hour, and to come inquire at the Yard myself if he had not arrived in that time."

I fumbled with the clasp of the locket around my neck. The watch sprang open to inform me that I had left Baker Street over an hour ago—that put Holmes well over his estimate of his own return.

"You have your pistol?" I inquired urgently.

"Of course."

I looked disappointedly at my heavy, soaked skirts and dainty shoes, but there was no time to change. This would have to do. "Did he say how he was going?"

"No, but he usually takes a cab."

We jogged briskly back out into the darkness, hunting for the familiar black shape in the indistinct distance. "There!" Watson finally exclaimed, and we ran to the hansom, somewhat startling the driver.

"Take us to Scotland Yard," I demanded, pressing an excess of coin into the man's hands, "but take a route as though you wished to avoid being followed there."

The horses took off like a shot. Watson and I each drew back our curtain as far as it would go to scrutinize the blurred buildings and alleys racing past. We reached Scotland Yard without event and, after confirming that no one inside had seen Holmes that evening, began a spiraling search outward from that location.

With a jolt, I remembered my earlier pursuer. "Uncle John, over here! As I walked along this street I thought that I was being followed, but I never saw by whom. Perhaps it was Holmes."

"Or someone who had seen him," the doctor supplied, and hurried over to where I stood.

There was little enough chance of finding footprints on the street at the best of times. In the current downpour it was impossible. I retraced my path from earlier that evening, looking for any signs. Watson followed behind me with his revolver at the ready.

A long groan down an alley to my left made me jump a foot in the air.

"Holmes!"

"Russell." The voice was rough and choked but obviously belonged to him. I followed the sound of a rattling breath being drawn, Watson aiming his pistol into the darkness around us.

When our eyes finally adjusted, we could see our friend curled against the wall. His right hand clutched at his shoulder. A dark stain spread behind his pale fingers and his lips were drawn tight in pain.

Watson and I dropped to crouches in one movement. My strong instinct was to reach for the wound and—and I didn't know what, only that I had to do something. Before I could act on this ill-fated impulse, however, the good doctor struck a match and began a thorough examination.

"I need to see it, Holmes." The hand fell. "Stabbed?"

"By a large knife," Holmes confirmed weakly.

Something brushed my hand in the darkness and I jumped. The thing wrapped between my fingers and I realized that it was Holmes's hand, warm and slick with blood. I squeezed it in reassurance and fought the bile rising in my throat. "What happened?"

"I was stabbed by a large knife." Even in the tension of the situation there was a sharp current of sarcasm in his response.

"Perhaps," Watson interjected, "we should get you somewhere safe where I can take a better look at this."

"An excellent idea."

I maneuvered myself so that Holmes's arm fell across my shoulders—his hand still clutched mine, though neither of us had acknowledged it—and Watson braced his other side. He grimaced and hissed when we pulled him to his feet and leaned on us heavily, but he was upright.

"How much blood would you estimate that you've lost?" Watson asked as the three of us stumbled toward the street.

"Nearly two pints."

Watson and I shared a worried glance. After losing two pints of blood a smaller man would certainly be unconscious. Even Holmes, thin and careless with his body as he was, couldn't lose much more.

As soon as we reached the circle of yellow light thrown by a street lamp we slid Holmes to the cobbles. His hand fell from mine and he made no effort to resume the contact. Watson moved in quick, sharp movements, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to press against the wound and tying his own jacket tightly around Holmes's shoulder. He was pale—but then he was always pale. Only the sweat standing at his temples and the anxious twitching of his fingers belied his pain.

I pulled Watson's revolver from his pocket and stood to keep watch. The grimy rain had lessened but there was still no one in sight. I held the weapon at the ready and kept my back to the wall, ready to retaliate should Holmes's attacker return.

Ropes of fear suddenly constricted my chest and I fought to keep my legs steady. It's all very well to speak of distancing logic from emotion in an emergency, but for the moment all was quiet but for the general ubiquitous dripping and my mind had time to dwell on the disturbing images it had conjured. What if we had waited half an hour more before coming? Holmes was in no condition to walk unaided and he might have fallen into unconsciousness, alone and cold down an untraveled alley. He could have bled out.

"How long ago did it happen?" I struggled against the binding anxiety.

Holmes coughed. "Twenty minutes."

"And your assailant?"

"I never saw his face. I saw movement in the alley and followed, thinking I might have found you, and once I had passed him he attacked me from behind. We struggled for a minute or so before he had me where he wanted me."

"You were very careless, Holmes," Watson said irritably.

"I know." Holmes furrowed his brow. In the wavering lamplight I could see a network of fine scratches across his jaw, and more on his hands. A shallow slash on the right side of his neck, hidden from Watson's industrious gaze, spilled jagged streaks of blood. He coughed once more and the harsh lines shifted. "It shouldn't have happened."

I dug in my pockets for a handkerchief. To my surprise, my fingers brushed a familiar, worn scrap of fabric.

There was no time to wonder how the handkerchief from my childhood had made its way back into my pocket. I shook it out and bent to place the pistol on the street before pressing it to Holmes's neck. He winced away but didn't protest.

"He's out of immediate danger." Watson dusted off his hands and stood. "Now we need to get him back to Baker Street so he can eat and lie down."

"Oughtn't we to take him to the hospital?"

"They couldn't do anything I can't do with my surgical kit. Some stitches and a hot meal and he'll be well on his way to recovery."

That was a lie and I knew it. A hot meal can't replace two pints of lost blood, but I appreciated his steadfast cheerfulness. Watson was a handy man to have in a crisis: level-headed and reassuring. He was the perfect foil to Holmes's reckless brilliance.

As to my own purpose, I could not answer. Perhaps I was redundant.

"The dizziness has passed," Holmes assured us. "Though perhaps it would be better for someone to go fetch a cab. I'm not quite ready for a walk of that length."

"Dr. Watson, you ought to stay with him," I said hurriedly. "Keep the pistol and I'll run for a hansom."

Holmes picked up the pistol from where I had dropped it and held it out to me. "Whoever attacked me might still be about. They've attacked you before and they may try again."

Watson passed me the revolver. My pulse beat strong where the metal pressed into my hand. "You mean to say you think it's the same man?"

"You know what I think about coincidence."

"The universe is rarely so careless," I agreed grimly. "I'll be right back. Don't worry."

The next hour or so passed in a blur. I know that I jogged several blocks, the revolver heavy in my hand, my skirts slapping against my legs as the rain picked up again. When I found a cab I climbed atop it despite the driver's protests to direct him back to my friends. The ride back to Baker Street was long, slow, and jostling. Watson and I shucked our damp coats to cover Holmes, who had begun to shiver.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson must have retired because she was nowhere to be found. We were left to wrestle Holmes upstairs by ourselves. He was shaking in earnest now. Watson kept trying to catch my attention to share worried looks, but I focused instead on the strained ache of my shoulders and the drops of cold water running down my back. It was difficult not to slip back into the haze of panic from earlier but I knew that now more than ever I had to be alert.

Once in the flat we eased Holmes into his usual chair by the fire. I slipped and stumbled back down the stairs, my glasses fogged with the heat, and returned with an armload of quilts to replace our dripping coats. At Watson's request I made another trip down to retrieve his surgical kit, then another to wake Mrs. Hudson and ask her to make tea.

The last time I reentered 221B, Watson had peeled back the rudimentary dressing on Holmes's wound and inserted his finger up to the second knuckle. As long as I live I will never forget that tableau: the brown cakes of drying blood peeling away to reveal the dark laceration; Watson's expression of distasteful concentration; Holmes's head thrown back against the chair, his lips pulled tight over gritted teeth, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. It was terrifying yet somehow intimate. I felt an intruder in their world.

"Ah, Mary! Pass me that gauze." Watson removed his hand with an unpleasant sucking sound. "And then have a look at this."

I dug the white roll of fabric out of his bag and handed it to him. He dropped a tiny object into my cupped hand. It was difficult to recognize at first, covered in blood and tissue fragments as it was, but I eventually made it out to be a triangle of steel about the size of a thumbnail. Two sides came to a neat point and the opposite edge was slightly uneven.

"The point of the knife?"

"It must have broken off when it impacted his clavicle," Watson theorized without turning from the task of binding Holmes's shoulder. "Perhaps there was a fault in the metal?"

I wiped it clean on my already-ruined dress and examined it closer. Holmes watched me through heavy-lidded eyes. "It looks thin and over-sharpened. Perhaps its owner wore it down to weakness."

"Do you think it could be used to identify the man?"

"Perhaps." My fingers itched to begin examining it immediately, but they were stayed by some internal force. "There will be time for that later."

Just then Mrs. Hudson entered with a large pot of tea. She was a steadfast woman and had seen much during Holmes's time as her renter, but even she visibly balked at his injuries. "Dr. Watson, is Mr. Holmes going to be all right?"

"I believe so. That tea will be welcome, I expect."

I folded my hand about the knife point in my palm and sat on the floor by the fire where I would be out of the way. My other hand hummed with the memory of Holmes's touch. I watched while he drank tea with an unsteady hand, the shaking gradually lessening. I too dried and warmed and relaxed, though I knew the security I felt was false. Whoever had attacked us, they were not worried about doing so in our own home.

It wasn't until the darkness outside was giving way to grey dawn that Watson finally retired to his room, wiping at the rusty stains beneath his fingernails with a cloth. I remained curled on the floor before the fire. Holmes was asleep, I thought; his shallow breathing had evened and become less labored. The sound was comforting and helped the last tingling adrenaline to ebb from my blood.

"Russell?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"You—are you all right?" His speech was slow and slurred.

"I'm fine, Holmes. How are you feeling?"

"Warm."

I sat up and saw that he was still wrapped in three or four thick blankets. "Too warm?"

He nodded. I gingerly pulled away two of the quilts and folded them within reach. As I leaned in to adjust the pillows propped around him, he folded his fingers around my wrist in a surprisingly strong grasp.

"Russell, did he get to you, too?" His eyes were clearer now—sharp and flinty. "I need to know if he hurt you."

"He didn't hurt me. Don't worry."

Holmes sighed and leaned back but did not relax his grip. "He followed you from the Yard."

Cold apprehension writhed down my spine. "The man who attacked you? But that would mean that he waited there for me!"

"Or that he was there already. More than that, it means that our man is trusted by Scotland Yard. It's no longer safe to expect support from them."

Silence fell as we both mused on the implications of this. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the locket against my sternum. My insides twisted as the sensation of Holmes's hand on my wrist fought for dominance with my growing dread.

"Russell," Holmes said again, and this time it was but a soft exhalation. "If he had reached you first—" He bit off his own words with a sharp click of teeth. "I would rather be injured thusly a thousand times before I saw you endure that madman's torture but once more."

"Hopefully that won't be necessary," I tried to joke. The words came out grim and weary.

Then Holmes was tugging my hand, causing me to stumble forwards, and I felt the thin, cool press of his lips against it. My throat constricted. After the night's events, I was tired and numb, but something deep in my abdomen flickered at the kiss.

Holmes froze when I made no response. Slowly his mouth lifted from my hand. "My—my apologies, Russell. That was inappropriate." He realized he was still clutching my wrist and dropped it as though it had burned him. "It's been a—a long night, and I—I—"

"The Great Detective is flustered?" I grinned, suddenly reassured. His response was genuine. The dilated pupils might have been the result of his injury, the stammering mere playacting, but even Holmes couldn't fake the intense flush rising up the back of his neck to tinge his ears. "With what cause?"

Holmes pressed a hand to his eyes and took a slow breath. "You needn't enjoy it so much."

"You're right. I'm sorry." My calm words belied my giddiness at reading his actions correctly for over a year. I hadn't been deluding myself as to his intentions. The surge of confidence brought me another step closer before I could stop myself. Heart fluttering, I sank to my knees so that we were on the same level. Part of me was aware that this moment was a tipping point in my life, I think, but I was too filled with excitement to take much caution.

Now it was my turn to wrap my hand about his wrist—gently—and pull his hand from his eyes. His steely gaze met mine. "I'm sorry," I whispered again.

Slowly, as though trying not to startle a wild animal, I pushed myself forward so that the arms of the chair bore my weight. Holmes looked into my eyes until I was so close that he couldn't focus on me anymore. I waited for him to pull away, or to speak, but he did neither, so with a sigh I don't think even he could hear I pressed my lips to his.

Our kiss was chaste and soft. Holmes brought his good arm up to rest across my shoulders, pulling me closer. My balance shifted too far forward. I did not wish to put any weight on his injuries, so I compromised and moved even farther forward until my knees rested on the chair's ample cushion.

It was strange. After so long, I had expected to feel some surge of love, or at least attraction. What I felt instead was a strong sense of peace. An iron rod straightening my spine after the weight I had been bearing. Strength and confidence and _rightness_.

I did not realize that my hands, now free, had come up to cup his face. Nor did I realize that at some point we both shifted so that I sat across him in the chair, hips wedged against the armrest and legs curled on top of his lap. The slight irregularity of his breathing was intoxicating. I could hear nothing but the slide of his fingers in my hair, feel nothing but the insistent pressure of his mouth on mine.

The love I had expected grew slowly. It started as a pleasant warmth in my heart and spread until it was all I could do not to wrap my arms around him and hold on for dear life. I was as aware of his injuries as if they had been my own, but still the impulse was there. I settled for sliding one hand to the back of his neck and another to his good shoulder and tugging softly—as though it were possible for us to be any closer.

Holmes made a low noise in the back of his throat and pulled away. He leaned his forehead against mine while we both caught our breath. "You know, when I said that kissing your hand was inappropriate, I wasn't suggesting that kissing your lips would be less so."

"I know." I chuckled. "It's a good thing Uncle John went to bed."

"He would be scandalized," Holmes agreed, tugging his blanket free so that he could wrap it around both of us.

I tried and failed to stifle a yawn. "Sorry. I'm fairly certain I've exercised my entire emotional range today."

"Surely not boredom."

"You have me there."

Holmes laughed now, softly, and the white morning light played against the orange glow of the fire as the contours of his face shifted. In that moment, in the exhausted let-down from the terror of his injury, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Even the circles under his eyes and the disheveled peaks of his hair seemed perfect in their imperfection.

I leaned forward and pressed a sleepy kiss to his jaw. He absently stroked my hair.

"Russell?"

"Hmm?"

"I promise you that it's going to be all right. We're going to find him."

"I know we will." And, for the first time in months, I did.


End file.
